Mangoes in the wintertime
by planet p
Summary: AU; an alternate sequel to After the island. Rated for mature content, including mentions of sexual abuse of a child. Emily/Lyle
1. Chapter 1

**Mangoes in the wintertime** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

_2010_

The dog barked. The Nelsons's mutt, she supposed, as she turned over in bed, tucking her head under the pillow to block out the little animal's barks. The dog continued barking. It barked and barked, with no sign of stopping. She suppressed a low growl that rose in the back of her throat. Damn animal!

Outside, a car started up. Someone going to work. And still, the dog barked on. On this day, it had a clear voice that rang out between the houses huddled together on the street, happy and safe in their own little wooded corner of the expanding town.

Emily and her kids had come to the town with her mother, Margaret, and friend, Harmony, a year ago. It had been a whole year. In a few days, it would be her daughter's first birthday.

The reminder of her daughter's birthday made Emily's eyes water. She took the pillow from her head and threw it at the wall. It didn't help. The dog still barked, and she felt just as awful as before.

Farfalla was blind.

They'd been to the clinic yesterday. By the time they'd left, she'd been in tears. She'd just stepped out of the clinic, the automatic doors had just breezed closed behind her, when the cold wind – as promised on that morning's weather report – had hit her, and the tears had started.

She'd still been crying when she'd reached the car, and, after tucking Farfalla into her car seat, she'd sat in the car and spent ten minutes trying to calm herself, and wiping away tears.

Snow was in school now; his first year. Emily moaned.

She'd need to get up sooner or later, she had to get Snow up, dressed, and ready for school. Before that could happen, there was breakfast, for her, Snow and Farfalla – then there was Snow's school lunch, and snack!

He was six and a half, and though he'd started in Grade 1, he was, nonetheless, miles ahead of the other kids in what he knew already. A week previously, Emily had taken him to the branch of their local library just a suburb over from theirs and, fully expecting him to be borrowing kids books, at least Gary Paulsen, he'd instead come back with a text on microbiology and another on gardening. She'd been gob smacked, and slightly peeved. She'd been about to snap at him to pick something proper, something like what the other kids were reading, when she'd had to stop herself. She didn't want to alienate Snow any more than he already felt; it had been hard for him to make himself get up and go to school every day; it was all so dreary!

Holding in her frustration, she walked to the front desk to borrow him his two books, when it had hit her – hang on, she couldn't very well borrow these books on Snow's library card! So she'd had to suffer through enquiring at the front desk about how to sign up for her own card, being directed to _another_ long queue, at the help desk, and then, having to sign half a dozen things, and produce relevant proof. She'd been handed her new library card, freshly signed, when Farfalla had started to make a fuss in her pram, and she'd caught Snow wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Caught out, he'd made a face at her and began complaining that the library lacked any books on soil biology.

She leant down to take Farfalla from her pram, and, fuming at her young son, she rubbed her daughter's back, and pushed the pram ahead of her, toward the queue waiting at the front desk. She supposed she should be consoled that there were only three other people ahead of her.

She would have to swing by the clinic with Snow, she decided; that was, if she could get in.

Emily sat up and got out of bed. She dug around in the chest of drawers for a jumper and, pulling it on, walked out of her bedroom, to the kitchen. Her feet were freezing, but she'd lost her slippers somewhere in the house. She filled the kettle and plugged it in, clicking it on to boil, and slouched, waiting for it to heat up. She needed a coffee.

The dog was still barking. She put her hands over her ears. Oh, shut up!

* * *

Sitting in front of Snow's school, she took out her cell phone, intending on calling Margaret or Harmony, who'd gone out of town for a few weeks to be with Ethan and Mo. She'd forgotten her mom's number. She had to click through the Address Book to find it again, then she sat staring at it dumbly. Her eyes swam with the beginnings of tears. She almost threw the phone at the window. She dropped it down onto the seat beside her instead.

_Control your anger, don't let it control you_, she thought sarcastically. _Reject aggression, culture cool._

Wouldn't it be _lovely_, she thought, that the day before her granddaughter's birthday, she picks up the phone, expecting, at the scariest, a request for an appropriate present from Mom, and what does she get: _You needn't bother with picture books or DVDs – the kid's blind!_

Emily laughed; tears dribbled down her face. She thoroughly felt like slapping herself. It was her daughter who was blind, not _her_! How could she possibly be so selfish! Oh poor me, I've got a blind kid; how will I ever deal with that!

She sniffed, pulling up her sleeve and wiping her cheeks. She snatched up her phone. Her hand started to shake; she punched in the number, and, peering at the little screen, was surprised to see that it was dialling. She held the phone up to her ear and waited for it to pick up. How many rings? _One, two, three-_

She sniffed. Three. "Can you come by?" she asked. She sniffed again. She recited her address.

* * *

It had been a really stupid thing to do, she thought now, as she was standing at the fridge in her tidy, tidy kitchen, looking for the milk but staring at the birthday cake from the day before. It hadn't been touched; they'd gone out to eat at a hotel, instead.

When she'd told the others about Farfalla's eyesight, Margaret had stood from her chair and declared that she would be at the bar. Jarod had stared at her for a moment, before his eyes had gone to follow their father, Charles, who'd gone after Margaret.

Snow had been busy eating all the sweets Margaret and Harmony had bought, instead of saving his appetite for lunch – don't leave any for mom, hey, little fella – and Ethan and Mo were silent.

Harmony had been sorry to hear about Farfalla's diagnosis; she'd given Emily's hand a pat, and Jarod had had a lot of questions. Emily had wanted to slap him and walk out, but, of course, she'd stayed, and, of course, she'd answered every one of his questions to the best of her ability.

Charles, predictably, had stayed with Margaret at the bar; they only returned when Mo left to inform them that the meals had arrived, and, by that time, Margaret was quite cheery from the alcohol.

Emily contained her anger – birthdays were for cheer, after all.

She shut the fridge door with a little too much force and turned away, putting away the idea of a hot strawberry-flavoured milk. It would only be bad for her anyway.

She walked to the lounge and sat down on the couch as though she was a guest, and it wasn't her house at all. She felt like laughing and crying. She felt like yelling: _For fuck's sake, woman!_ She was silent.

Maybe that was what she was hoping for, she thought. To be caught. The Center would come and take her away, take her children away, then she'd have nothing to worry about again, at least, nothing to do with her kids. She'd probably never see them again, either.

She lay down on the couch and closed her eyes. She tried again, to find the dream she'd been dreaming that morning, before she'd woken, but it was gone, and she wasn't at all tired, just very, very worn. She couldn't have slept if she'd had a hot tea and listened to one of Jarod's ambience CDs.

She imagined an ocean, then a beach – the warm sand, the feel of the sun on her skin – an outcrop of rocks, scattered bouquets of weedy grasses, the low scrubby bushes, some prickly, scratchy things, and, further afield, far enough now that, to catch some small detail, she'd have to strain her eyes, a gathering of scattered rock pools, shiny in the sun. The water came up onto the rocks of the pools, as the tide washed in, and wet her feet; she peered down into one of the pools, past the glare of the sun on the water's surface, and looked for the little creatures that lived in the pools.

Jarod was going to hate her; Margaret was going to kill her.

The knock on the door startled her; she tried to sit too fast and tumbled off the couch with a _thump!_

* * *

In the hall, standing by the open front door, she hung around at the door, trying to get a look along the street for any unfamiliar cars. It was just the one, she noted. Out of the blue, she was struck then with the thought of how little she visited the gym, or went swimming, or walking, or running. She'd done quite a bit of running in her early teenage years.

Shaking the thought from her mind, she moved out of the doorway to allow her guest through, and closed the door.

* * *

It was when she was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the electric kettle to boil, that she noticed the _Happy Birthday_ helium balloon from yesterday's birthday party. It was hanging around on the ceiling, doing nothing much, conveniently missing its ribbon.

Where the Hell had the bloody thing gone?

She pulled a chair out and, slipping of her sun-patterned flats, climbed up onto it, and, from there onto the kitchen table, before she realised how daft she looked. She got down from the table: the water had boiled, anyway.

"Farfalla's balloon," she muttered, as she walked back to the kettle to add hot water to the coffee grounds already in the coffee plunger.

Lyle glanced up at the ceiling, and, noticing the balloon, he returned his gaze to her.

"My daughter," Emily said, with a frown. She made a face at the plunger; couldn't it hurry up?

"She's-"

"One," Emily finished. She felt strange, off-kilter; he was completely right in his reaction, of course: they hadn't spoken since Farfalla's birth, there was no reason for him to have known of her existence. She wanted to laugh. The sole reason she'd rung him was to have someone to whinge to about someone he hadn't, beyond five seconds ago, known to have existed!

She directed her gaze outside the kitchen window. "She's blind." No cars passed on the road outside her house. Her thoughts turned to the cake in the fridge, untouched. "She was premature," she added. "Would you like cake?"

"How are you?"

"Cake?" she asked, as though he hadn't spoken.

He shook his head, "Fine."

"It was for Farfalla's birthday, but I ruined that." She smiled. "World's Best Mom here I come!"

"Why did you ask me to come, Emily?" Lyle asked seriously.

She noticed how he was frowning at her, and thought, _Ruined your day, too. Oops!_ "I dunno," she replied, almost uncaring. She thought of Ray, Farfalla's father, who hadn't shown up for her birthday; who didn't even know she existed. Whose fault is that? Oh, wait, isn't it… yours? "You didn't leave me," she said blandly.

Lyle laughed, then, perhaps realising that his reaction had been uncalled for, said, "You're here alone?"

She didn't laugh, she answered, "Yessir!" _Way to go!_ she thought angrily. _I think that speaks for itself after your intentions, doesn't it!_

He turned away from her. "Why don't I just go!"

She put out a hand, and dropped it again. "Because I want you to stay," she said to his back. "And… you haven't had your coffee, yet."

"I don't need your coffee," he replied, "I can buy my own."

"Oh, well, if I'm keeping you from something!" Emily shouted.

"You're not keeping me from anything," Lyle said quietly. He turned back to face her, and crossed his arms.

Emily grinned, waiting for him to tell her off. What was wrong with her anyway?

He shook his head, "Go. Get the cake."

She shook her head back, narrowing her eyes in a scowl, and walked to the fridge. She took the cake out and shut the door, walking back to the table to put it down and look for the knife. "It's from the bakery," she explained. "I was going to get a supermarket one, but then I thought, _That's just cheap_, so I got this one instead. I can't do sponges, so that's why I couldn't be _bothered making it myself._" She pulled a face at the thought, "I hate whipping cream."

"You should make it half and half with corn starch."

"What?"

"The cake. To make it lighter."

Emily glared at him. "Yeah, I'll remember that for future reference!" she snapped sarcastically. "Corn boy!"

He smiled.

She rolled her eyes, shutting the drawer she'd been rummaging through with a bang. "I need a real knife!" she growled. "I am not cutting the cake with a fucking paring knife! Snow, you shit!" Running a hand over her hair, she turned back to Lyle. "When you were a kid, where did you hide the knives when you wanted to hide them?"

"I never had that particular urge," he confessed. "Under the fridge, perhaps?"

She stalked back to the fridge and got on the floor, feeling under the fridge with a hand. "The fucking shit!" she muttered, taking the knife to the sink to wash it. "He's at school," she said, before he asked. "Grade 1. When he comes home from school and I ask, 'How was it?' he says the same thing, always the same thing: 'It was boring!' I suppose it was the same for you."

Lyle smiled, "Sure."

Emily returned the metal scourer to the draining board and turned the tap off, drying the knife on the clean handtowel folded neatly on top of the microwave. "But I bet your father liked you to go to school regularly."

"As parents do," Lyle replied.

Emily put the knife down on the kitchen table and draped the handtowel over a chair to dry. "What do you think? What if he misses out a few days?"

"Don't all kids? I rephrase, to be realistic."

Emily made a face at him. _Sure!_ "He's reading biology books!"

"Isn't that your thing," Lyle defended, slightly amused.

Emily shook her head, frowning. "I was a _reporter_, not a biologist!"

"I stand corrected."

She laughed. "Yeah, right!"

"So, is that cake gonna cut itself, or what?"

* * *

"What did you read when you were a kid?" Emily asked, halfway through her second piece of cake.

"Books were so inconsequential to me at that age, I couldn't remember the titles if I wanted," Lyle replied.

"When you were six?"

He nodded.

"You didn't wonder what other families were like?"

"No. All families are different, just like all people are. Wondering is okay, but I didn't see the purpose in… fantasising about something that was never going to happen."

Emily frowned. "Weren't you ever curious? Didn't you ever… wish you could get away from it all?"

"If I'd been curious, then I would have asked someone who would know."

"What if there was no-one?"

"Why allow yourself to get worked up over things you'll never experience?" Lyle asked rhetorically.

"Because it's human," Emily suggested. "Because people are curious. They want to experience these things, and, when they can't, they read about someone else experiencing them instead."

"Someone else, who, more often than not, isn't even real."

"Just because they're the product of someone's imagination doesn't mean they're not grounded in the writer's _real_ experiences," Emily contested.

Lyle smiled. There was the journalist in her, coming out. "We all deal with experiences differently," he told her.

"You never just wanted to escape?"

"I wanted to… stay, and work on our… problems. We were a family; even if I was 'just a kid,' my role in 'the family' was as important as that of either of my parents. I hated to give up on something that… was mine… something that I knew, something that I was a _part_ of." He nodded. "In regard to your earlier assertion, I guess I did look around at other families and say to myself, 'Well, they seem to work… somehow!' But, at the same token, I understood that my parents weren't anyone else's parents, and, I wasn't them; we were each individuals; as much as my experiences were tied up, compelled, by theirs, even, I was my own person, and, I might add, as much as their experiences were separate from those of me, and each other, it was no different for them in that we were all… connected by the fact that we _were_ a family, the fact that we interacted on a regular basis, and we each had a vested interest in one another. I'm… rambling, but…" He sighed. Glancing at her, he shook his head. "You have no idea what I was just – blah, blah, blah – rambling on about? No?"

"I think I need to call a friend," Emily joked. "I think I got ya!"

"Is your daughter here? In the house?" Lyle asked.

Emily nodded. "She's sleeping."

Lyle sighed. "It's a nice house, in a nice suburb," he commented.

"Thanks, big brother!" Or, in other words, _Thanks, Jarod!_

"You're alright on your own, with the kids?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well…"

"I'm not worried about the Center," she told him. "I wouldn't _waste_ my _time_! _Or damage my health!_"

"I'm not sure that's an entirely wise situation," Lyle remarked.

Emily shook her head. "I'm not one of your precious Pretenders! I don't care!"

"You do care because you don't want to see your kids, or your family hurt," Lyle told her.

"You think you get me," Emily said, "but you don't!"

"I see there's no arguing with you."

"Yup!" She took another piece of cake.

"What if… I asked you to care."

Emily licked a sprinkle that had been annoying her from the side of her mouth and met his eyes. "What makes you think I give a fuck what you want!"

"For," he closed his eyes for a moment, "our son."

Emily put her fork down on her plate and folded her arms. "Don't you mean _my_ son? He's never met _you_! He doesn't have a father; not a _real_ father!"

Lyle smiled. "No he doesn't."

Emily glared. "Oh, you're hurt! How touching! Yeah, fuck you!"

"Well, there, I think you're gonna be alright," he remarked with amusement, and stood up from the chair he'd been sitting in.

Emily ignored him, and went back to eating her cake.

"There's no need to show me out, ma'am," Lyle told her. "I assure you that I can recall _that_ much." He left the table.

"What's my favourite song?" Emily asked, without looking around at him.

He stopped in the kitchen door, and turned back around slowly. "Your guess is as good as mine," he replied, entirely unaffected.

She turned in her chair so that she could see him. "Guess!"

He made a show of thinking about it for a moment, then shook his head. "No idea."

She turned back to her cake. "That's Pretenders for you!" she told the plate, to no reply.

* * *

"Emily."

Emily dropped her fork. It gave a strange, dulled ping as it stuck the laminate flooring. "Thanks!" she muttered, thinking, _Wouldn't it have been charming if I'd stabbed myself in the foot with it!_ She thought he'd gone, but instead he'd decided that it would be _Hey, what a great idea!_ to sneak up on her and startle her.

She made no move to retrieve the fork she'd just dropped. If he wanted to say something, he could just say it. She wasn't going to play into his games. She'd already _told_ him that!

Sighing, he moved past her and sat down on the table.

She successfully resisted slapping his leg and telling him that it was rude to sit on table, and, for a moment, her eyes came to rest on the knife she'd discarded beside the cake, mucky with bits of cake and cream. She let the single pink sprinkle clinging to the knife blade go. She'd have to clean all of the grubby dishes up later, besides. That was going to be a fun job, she envisaged.

"Are you mad at me?" Lyle asked.

She ignored him and dropped her eyes to the floor to see where the fork had fallen and if she'd be able to lean down and pick it up; it had bounced off under the table. She scowled, unimpressed. "I'm not mad," she merely said.

He reached over to touch her arm. "You never said what your favourite song was."

"Yeah, you're right," she replied. "I don't much fancy sharing details of my personal life with you."

"No?"

"No."

He smiled, shook his head. "I can't be trusted, eh?"

"Bugger off!" She shoved his hand off her arm. What a creep!

"So, did you do anything for your daughter's birthday?" he asked.

"Went out to the pub."

"With… your family."

She grinned. "Yeah. You just missed them."

He said nothing.

She remembered, vaguely, that Jarod had said that Miss Parker's birthday was on January 3. For some reason, the date had stuck. "How was yours?"

"Nothing special."

"You didn't go out?"

"No."

"Did your sister?"

"Dunno. She doesn't invite me to her things." He pushed her plate of half-eaten cake away, towards the centre of the table. "Sit next to me, hey, Russell?"

"I wouldn't invite you to my things, either," Emily commented, and got up from her chair to sit beside him on the table, resting her bare feet on the chair. "Get any presents?"

He made a face, "Presents are for kids."

"You're ridiculous," she told him. "My family get me presents for my birthday."

Lyle shook his head. "I don't really need anything anyway."

"Birthday presents aren't about what you need!" Emily declared, appalled.

"It's not my thing."

"Come on, you've got to have bought _someone_ something sometime. Your girlfriend… girlfriend_s_?"

"Other people, sure."

"Scared the present monster will get you?" Emily teased.

"I'm sorry, the what?"

"The present monster," Emily repeated, close to laughter.

"I've never actually heard of the present monster, I've got to say."

Emily burst into laughter, "Me neither!" Calming down, she said, "You know, my dad, he sent me this, ah, this pin, of a star, a silver shooting star," she made a shooting star motion with her hand, "when I was, in boarding school. The present monster is real, one hundred percent real, let me tell you. Cos, I never saw hide nor hair of that pin. My dad is so disappointed, even now. I lost the pin he'd sent me! _So bad!_"

"Boarding school?"

"Don't ask me anything!" she whined, amused. "I don't know!" She sighed, resigning. "Mom told me there was an accident, involving… a car accident, and… my friend died. They think I freaked and ran away, you know, like I thought, _Oh my God, they're so going to blame _me_ for this!_" She nodded, mentally calculating the years. "I think it's… yeah, it's seven years. Seven years I don't remember. I was 17 when I found mom and… Harm again. I had to stay in hospital for a bit – the food was so _tasteless_, disgusting – but otherwise, it was fine. Just glad to be home, I mean, with mom and my mom's friend, Harmony." She made a note to kick herself later for mentioning Harmony. "That… quote unquote, out of my journal. I thought I'd give it a try, in case I remembered anything. Totally on a different subject, how to you do surprises?"

"As well as anyone, I suppose," he replied. "Or… you could give me a head start before you come after me?"

"You're paranoid," she laughed. "And why do you get the head start?"

"I'm older."

"I'm fat."

"You're not fat! Who told you that? Just ignore them."

"Nobody told me; I've got eyes of my own."

"Well, I'd be having my eyes checked if I was you; you're not fat."

"_Well_, pardon me if I don't spend all day running about after _Jarod_!" she snapped.

"Oh, of course, because I do! Which is why, mind you, oh no, wait… No, well, I'm sure it's just a thing…"

Emily rolled her eyes. "I'm not a fucking Sweeper! I've got two small kids, and practically no time at all for myself! Right now, if you weren't here, I'd be doing something! Something always needs to be done!"

"You're out of condition, but you're not fat. That's just… stupid, to even say that. You look really… You're a beautiful woman; you shouldn't put yourself down."

Emily laughed. "Why do I care what you think?"

"Oh, well, if you don't, I'm not going to force you."

"You're such a bastard!"

"Need you remind me? My sister's still going on about that; I'm starting to believe she'll never stop. I don't know why she's so worked up about it; so what if James wasn't our _biological_ father-"

Emily slapped him in the arm. "That's not what I meant and you know it!" she snapped.

"Yeah."

"Are you leaving then?"

"Are you throwing me out?"

She shoved him in the arm, and laughed. "Yeah, get off my table!" Outside the kitchen window, it started to rain. "There goes that idea of the washing," she commented unhappily.

"You don't go to the Laundromat?" Lyle asked.

She rolled her eyes. "I've got a lovely, but pricey washing machine at home! It wasn't just bought so it can sit there looking pretty!"

"No, um, the dryers; I was thinking of the dryers," Lyle told her.

She closed her eyes and listened to the rain; any moment Farfalla would wake and raise a ruckus. She opened her eyes. "I never poured you that coffee," she said, slipping from the table. She walked to the coffee plunger and touched her hand to the side of it; it was lukewarm, at best. She put her hands over her face.

"It's fine how it is," Lyle assured her.

She took two mugs from the cupboard and poured coffee into them. She finally turned and walked back to the kitchen table and placed Lyle's coffee down on the table beside where he was standing. She supposed he'd been contemplating taking a better look outside.

"Do you have sugar?" he asked.

She huffed; _of course!_ "I'm a proper Forgetful Trudy today!" She left to retrieve the sugar jar, an old coffee jar filled with supermarket brand white sugar, from the kitchen cupboard, and a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer. At the table, she stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into her own coffee, and glanced at him questioningly.

"Three, tah," he told her.

She supposed three sugars was his sister's calling card with her coffee – she'd heard that from Jarod, actually; it had been a joke, something about her being sweet enough without the added sugar – but she said nothing. Jarod would never say anything like that to Miss Parker's face, she supposed.

"Emily?"

She looked up from the table.

"You're sure you couldn't do with a lift to the Laundromat?"

She gave her head a shake. "The washing's going to take some time."

"I don't mind waiting."

"I've got a car," she said. He'd have seen it; it was sitting in the drive.

"I think… in another life, I could have… cared for you, Emily," he told her. "It seems like… a suitable notion… I don't ask you to be careful just for the sake of our son, I ask… because it's the right thing to ask…" He frowned, but didn't look away. "I don't… expect you to care… about anything I've just said… but… if not for me, for the people who do care for you… because there are people who care for you, and I think you know that… I think you know that but… you want to forget it because you've, you've had enough. You can't allow yourself to take your anger or frustration out on them; you have to… find a way to understand it, but… don't play into it. I'm not just saying this to wind you up, Emily. Or because… I'm hoping to come across, to you, as… something that I'm not. I'm saying it because it needs to be said, and it doesn't really matter who says it, as long as someone does. And… I'm here… So, why not."

Emily blinked, and picked up her coffee. She took a sip, and thought, _That was… weird!_ She didn't really know what to say to that, beyond the weird look she was probably giving him Lyle now.

He nodded. "Goodbye, Emily."

She put her coffee down and rushed forward, stopping before him quickly. "Surprise!" She gave him a small kiss on the cheek. "Happy Birthday!"

He smiled, and turned away.

She put her hands over her face, and didn't take them away until she'd heard the front door open, and close again.

* * *

**Hey, if you have any suggestions for Fulton's first name, that'd be cool. (She'll be first up in the next chapter.) Thanks for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

Though he'd only turned one, Alvin's birthday had been hectic. Eddie had bought about a thousand things – all little knickknacks – with her small amount of pocket money, and she'd wanted her mommy's help 'making them surprising' in wrapping paper.

The entire venture, from start to finish, was torturous; it had set her teeth on edge from the beginning of _Mommy can you help me…_ to the end of when the last 'present' was done being wrapped. Her fingers were sore, overused, and scratched from the disposable sticky tape dispenser. Dexter had just one thing to give his brother on his birthday; a big, big hug from his big brother!

She advised he go lightly on the 'big, big' hug as his little brother was only one. Wouldn't it be a pity if he hugged him to death?

The comment had Dexter in tears, and his mother not far behind.

By the time the birthday party had wound down, and she had two primary-aged children to carry, sleeping, to their beds, and one 1-year-old to see to, she wasn't far from tearing her hair out at the mess, or the dishes she still had to do before she could so much as get to bed herself.

All that, and she had work in the morning.

She slept badly, awfully, and woke feeling the same.

* * *

She spent the day following Alvin's birthday on wheels, and forced herself, when she got home, to make something nice for the kids, something wholesome and home-cooked, and, if she was deadbeat, she told herself that that wasn't good enough, the kids still needed a decent meal in their stomachs; she was their mom.

She refrained, with difficulty, from nodding off at the kitchen table and falling face-first into her plate of dinner. Then, in the lounge, she had a sit down with Eddie to read through her very first Reader courtesy of her sweet, kindly, considerate schoolteacher.

Dexter spent the entire time sitting in the armchair across from the couch, that was clearly far too big for him, with a painful frown plastered to his face, worthy of _Twilight_'s Jasper.

The day passed without a single reason for her to remember it.

* * *

Friday was late-night shopping in Blue Cove, it had been, for as long as she could remember, Supermarket Day. She'd completely overlooked making a list over the week, so she'd have to play it by ear; _We stay open late_ didn't mean until midnight.

At lunch, she sat down to catch up on her paperwork, got caught up with a problem, and forgot to even eat her sandwich. She felt sick for hours afterwards, and, on her break, she sat down for a coffee and a chocolate bar she bought from one of the vending machines.

Eddie and Dexter rang her from home, with Alvin and the babysitter, at four, wanting to know when she'd be home, and she told them an hour, two hours, maybe.

If the connection hadn't been messing around with her, Dexter had come down with the flu, and that was the last thing either she, or he, needed. She couldn't leave her kids with a sitter when they were sick; it drove her mad. She was their mother, and she had to be with them. She also had a stack load of work to do.

Preoccupied in her thoughts, she almost ran a light going home, and received several dirty honks from the surrounding cars, then, finally pulling in home, she found that No Harm!, a group of local parents fighting against child sex crimes and paedophiles in their neighbourhood, had left a flyer on her doorstep. She threw the thing straight in the bin, and unlocked her front door.

Dexter was in the bathroom with the sitter, vomiting. Shopping night evaporated in a snap!

She rang Cox to ask him to come around; she'd never gone in for that rubbish about how he'd raped and murdered his younger sister; they'd never been able to convict him, and, he'd had an unshakable alibi. She got the answering machine: he was at work; he'd been at work when his sister was being raped and murdered, too, if the mediums Cleary's producers had engaged for the show she hosted, _True Crimes_, were to be trusted on that fact alone: the girl was dead. They still thought he'd done it.

She tried Grace Miller, where her late husband's first wife had used to work. They said they could get her in in two, maybe three hours. She didn't argue. Her hands were shaking when she put the phone down, and, as she went to shut the phonebook, she discovered that she'd ripped the page in the Yellow Pages with Miller's advert.

She went back to the bathroom to ask the sitter if he'd be able to stay on, and comfort Dexter. When she'd had a look in on him, Alvin had been asleep, and Eddie silently reading her school Reader, though she was likely only looking at pictures; she didn't read yet. She was probably the only one in her class who could look at a word like 'cat' or 'tree' and say, when asked as to what the word was, _Dunno._

The sitter made dinner so that she could stay with Dexter, and Eddie came to tell her it was ready. Pasta and a readymade sauce out of the jar, nothing fancy. She told her daughter she'd have it later, and, by the looks of it, Dexter wasn't going to be eating anything meaningful. At that, she set Dexter off crying, and forgot all about Eddie.

Eddie left the room, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

She drove to the hospital at seven, and had Dexter in to see a doctor at 7:30, only to be told that, physically, her son's health seemed within perfectly normal parameters for kids his age. Dexter had only recently started school, he was in his first year, she told the doctor, perhaps he'd caught something from one of the other little kids in his class.

The doctor suggested it would be a good idea if blood samples were taken, and, wearily, she agreed. Dexter cried again when he was told that he'd have to have blood taken with a needle, and, when the doctor explained that they'd be going down to Pathology to see a woman called Lucille, he threw up on the doctor's examining table.

Frustrated, and at her wit's end, she started crying, too. As per the hospital's policy on cell phones, she left the room to use one of their payphones to call Lyle to ask him whether he could drop by her place to pick up Eddie and pick up some things from the shops for her, anything he thought might be needed; Eddie was his half sister, after all.

She wasn't worried that he'd try to take Eddie away from her, or that he'd hurt her; she'd known him for long enough to be able to trust him a little bit, and, in any case, Eddie wasn't Asian, or anywhere near the age he'd be remotely interested in her; she was a child, she'd only turned six a month ago.

He could do that, he told her, and she hung up. After having rung the sitter to confirm the arrangements, she returned to Dexter.

* * *

Greeting him at the door in her best, warm coat, Eddie told him, "You sound better."

"I'm feeling better," he agreed cheerily, and, after a short talk with the sitter, who was staying to look after Alvin, they walked to the kitchen to have a look around.

"My brother's sick," Eddie explained, when he was trying to remember how to spell something for the list. He wrote it down in Afrikaans.

"Yes, your mother told me. She's at the hospital with Dexter."

Eddie nodded; then, suddenly, a frown crossed her face and refused to budge. "He's not really sick," she said.

"What do you mean, darlin'?" Lyle asked.

"I think he's dying," Eddie replied.

"Absolutely not."

"He's not sick!" she told him angrily.

"I believe you if you say so, darl," Lyle said calmly. "So it's psychological; stress. Is he stressed about school? You both go to the same school, yeah?"

She nodded.

"Does he like school? Has he ever said anything to you about not liking school?"

She shook her head. "Mommy said he couldn't hug Alvin on his birthday because he would squash him to death," she remembered.

"No, love, she said he had to be careful hugging Alvin," he corrected gently.

"You weren't there!" she screamed, suddenly angry again. Maybe it had been his choice of endearment; her father had used to call people that: love. Maybe it was because it was true; he hadn't been there. He was the grownup, he knew so much better than she did – what a load of fucking bullshit!

"Edna, I know your mother. I've known her for a lot longer than you have."

"It doesn't matter! It still doesn't mean you were there!"

"Darling, she would not have told either of you that you couldn't hug your little brother. In any case, I don't see that as being the only reason for Dexter's unwellness. It isn't your fault, it isn't your mother's fault, and it certainly isn't Dexter's. People get sick, it's what happens. We're not out in the country, we're in the city. There are a lot of different people that we meet everyday, and a lot of things we do that we perhaps shouldn't, shortcuts, small conveniences that we take for granted as being okay. It's a different time; sick people, it's a big industry, Edna."

She crossed her arms, her face red. She didn't say, That isn't a word. So, I can't read yet, but I've never heard anyone use it before, so it mustn't be a real word. It wasn't even about the word, though, so she said nothing on the topic. It was about his presuming to know her mother, presuming to know something she, as a kid, couldn't; as though it could only be baffling to her, or she could only overlook it completely so that, in her world, it didn't exist; it never kept her up.

"Do you still want to come with me to the shops?" he asked, frowning.

_Piss off_, she thought. She said nothing, but looked away from him. When he walked out of the kitchen to the front door, she followed him. She was only being a bitch because Dexter was sick. She understood that her mother's overall sentiment toward him was hatred, so it wasn't easy for him, to just say, now, yeah, okay, I'll get you your damn shopping, and, later, if you still hate me, fuck it, I don't care. That's just how it is with us; shit never stopped the world moving on, shouldn't stop us either. People live with hate like that all the time, even worse kinds of hate, hate for people they've never met, never spoken with, you just hope it's okay; everybody hates somebody, right?

She was coming, with or without her angry mood. Of course, she got something her mom didn't. He wasn't her half brother; her father hadn't been his, too, but maybe… maybe he didn't get that, maybe he didn't care.

She didn't. Not really, really. She was just glad she wasn't on her own. She wasn't her mom, she didn't hate him yet.

* * *

They were in the confectionary aisle, he was looking at mints; he wasn't going to buy anything, he was just looking; they moved on to look at the coffee.

Eddie asked why it mattered what kind they got, so they spent some time taking a few of the packets from off their shelves and reading the _Made in…_ wherever they'd been made on the labels.

Eddie didn't know why exactly, she just thought it was interesting, and she decided, she would try to remember how to spell Belgium, France, Germany and Switzerland. She would try, but she knew she would fail; it was the trying part that she was proud of, she'd not wanted to try anything for a long time. She missed her dad.

Lyle frowned. "Eddie?"

Eddie looked at him, still holding one of the packets. It was square and hard, but if she squashed it really hard, it felt like it might budge just a little bit. She wondered how many she would be able to stack on top of one another until the tower fell down. If she would be able to stack them to the ceiling. "What?" There were water stains on the ceiling, browny-yellow things, and, not knowing that they were water stains, she wondered what they were.

"What store are we in?"

Eddie put the packet back on the shelf, making eyes at it. Okay, that was a fairly freaky question. Hadn't he paid attention when they'd come in? Why didn't he just look up at the sign hanging over the aisle?

She told him the name of the store.

"Thank you," he said, then nodded to the coffee she'd been holding just moments before. "Do you think your mom will like that one?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. Which was fair. She didn't drink the stuff; she had a vague notion of why her mom did, but nothing concrete. _I'm beat_, her mom would say, _I need a coffee._

"Well, why don't we just get that one?"

She noticed then, how his voice was shaking, like he wasn't better at all, but had just been pretending; because she was a kid and her little brother was sick and she was distraught. He'd been a kid once, too.

She had to remind herself of that or else she'd get mad. She was in a crappy mood, she just felt like getting mad over everything. It was something, she supposed, it was a feeling.

She took the packet of coffee back off the shelf and put it in their trolley, reaching up on her toes to drop it over the side of the trolley just exactly in the middle. Hey-yah! I got it!

Twerp.

They went to look at the fruit and vegetables.

* * *

It was only when she was picking apples out of the pile and depositing of them into the handless plastic bag she'd got from the roll with lots of other bags all rolled up into a neat, tight little roll, that she saw how his hands had started to shake, just like his voice before, and she thought maybe now she was starting to get scared.

Before her dad had died, she hadn't been scared easily. Even her parents' arguments hadn't scared her, not really. They were just people, people argued; they'd never hit each other.

She didn't know why he hadn't said anything yet, why he hadn't tried to comfort her; as though he hadn't thought she had noticed, or maybe, maybe he was hoping that she _hadn't_ noticed. She had, though, and it hurt. It hurt her that he would leave her hanging like that, confused. Usually, he wasn't like this.

She was scared.

She could see his hands shaking, like she'd heard it in his voice, but she couldn't feel it; she couldn't feel anything wrong at all. She wanted her dad. It had been her dad who'd told her first; in fact, he was the only one who'd told her. She supposed she'd always just known that her mother didn't know. She should have felt it, though. She should have felt it, the something that was making him shake, but instead: nothing.

She just needed him to say something. _Please, please,_ she begged, but her thoughts never became words.

* * *

The checkout attendant was young, not a kid, but in her early twenties. Eddie had spent laborious hours learning numbers, and, when she thought she'd got them down, she'd made a list. She'd decided, one day, that it mattered whether she could judge a person's age, so her list was all about the people she knew and their ages. She'd even asked some of them: _How old are you? Are you closer to thirty or forty?_ They'd given her strange, disconcerted looks, or amused looks. Why some kid needed to know their age seemed like a pretty odd thing to them, but it was okay, her mom was odd, too.

"How are you?" Lyle asked the boy politely.

Eddie had a feeling some people got more polite when they felt unwell, like it could make them better again, just like that, lickety-split; whilst others just got mean. She wondered which she was, and, lost in her thoughts for a time, only managed to catch the end of Lyle's reply to the boy's reciprocity polite enquiry.

She smiled at the boy; she was okay, too. She didn't think he cared that she wasn't, or that he wanted to know. He was a boy, he had his own life. Shit like that would just get him down. _Smile, Eddie. It's what the people want to see._

That was when it hit her. _You're a stupid robot!_ she thought. Then, abruptly, _You'd get mad, you stupid robot!_

They were outside now, the sudden darkness was like a slap; the kerb wasn't her friend, they'd stepped off the footpath, and, walking beside Lyle and not behind him, she'd missed out on the small concrete decline from the kerb that was probably for trolleys or prams – walking frames, wheelchairs – and she'd pitched forward, her ankle giving a twinge of protest at her hard, jarring movement. Lyle grabbed her arm, saying, in an overly stern manner, "You need to watch for cars!"

She said nothing back; she knew some people drove like ratbags, and especially in parking lots. She didn't know why, she just knew it was true; she'd seen it enough times to know. Her mom was the same, always telling her, _Don't run! Watch where you're putting your feet!_

Her eyes were okay in the diminished light, by then, and she had a look around for where they'd parked the car, carefully sidestepping, when they past a high light post, the circle of light, and walking on.

Dex was sick, so, whatever, she was a crappy sister. Spotlights were for stars, for divas. Stars made you laugh; she just remember the useless way she'd been moping around the house, the useless way she hadn't been able to cheer her brother up, and how, on Alvin's birthday, she hadn't thought to get Dexter a single present, not even a really small one.

"Is she your teacher?" Lyle asked, out of the blue, as a woman got out of her car and slammed the door shut after her. She'd just pulled up into one of the parking bays. Eddie squinted at the woman, and, gradually, despite the difference in her attire, she noticed that she recognised her from where she went to school with her little brother.

She shook her head. "She's not a teacher. She's a teacher's aide. Dexter sees her a lot, and this other girl, who's from one of the older kids' classes. It's not because Dexter's stupid or anything, but."

She wanted to kick herself. Her speech was overly babyish; she was a jerk! She was vying for attention even though she didn't want it, even though though she felt shitty, that was exactly how she believed she deserved to feel, and, to want someone's sympathy was just an antagonising tactic: if she didn't get it, _There, you can't have it; look, you're a baby,_ and if she did, _What a loser!_

They stopped at the car and she watched him putting the things into the boot, completely disconnected from them; she couldn't think of them as things she was going to use later on, in her own house, or things she was going to eat for breakfast, or her mom would make into her school lunch, or she'd beg to have for dessert after dinner.

She walked with him to put the trolley away, in the trolley bay, it was what decent people did; don't leave it on the road so something could hit it with their car, or it could roll off and prang someone's vehicle.

She wondered how Dex was, in the hospital. With the bright lights, like the ones in the supermarket. _I'm not with you right now, but I love you,_ she thought. _I love you so much, Dex. You're a good kid, and you're my kid brother. I need one of those; don't you go! Don't you dare!_

Her eyes stung. She was cold, suddenly; her jacket did nothing.

They stopped at the car, and Lyle opened the door for her to get in. She sat up the front; he hadn't told her not to. She liked sitting up the front, though she couldn't really see very much out of the windscreen. She could see the bonnet, sure, but bugger all else.

Her mom would kill her for getting into the habit of words like _bugger_, she thought, if even only in her thoughts; but not really. She'd just be angry. She wanted to say she didn't care, but she did; that didn't stop her from thinking the word: it was a word she'd picked up from her dad, and it was staying, it was just staying; nobody could take it away from her.

She looked across at Lyle, but he hadn't started the car. He hadn't told her to put her seatbelt on; not even anything about how a person always put their seatbelt on when they got into a car, _Get into good habits, Eddie._

The light in the car had gone out and it was dark. The light posts dotted all around the parking lot seemed miles away; they might as well have been in Russia, or Uzbekistan, or Iraq. In Canada, or Cuba, or Australia. Anywhere but Blue Cove, anywhere but here, in this car.

She couldn't tell if he was sad or angry, or if he was just… just nothing. She thought maybe he was just thinking, and she'd just started to wonder what he was thinking about – had he left the key in the lock on the outside of the car door? – when he said, "Come here." He didn't even look at her, as though he was still working out his thoughts.

She didn't think, _Hang on, what if he's a creep!_ She was a kid, and, above that, it totally killed her how some of the girls, the nine- and ten-year-olds who played on the monkey bars, were always like, _Oh, that boy wants me, he wants to be my boyfriend, he wants me to be his sweet honey thing._ She knew very well what they meant; some of them had even drawn pictures in the toilets, but that was the older ones. She wanted to tell them, _Shut up, we're just kids, how can we even get that when our hormones don't get it!_ But she got it, she got why they wanted to get it, even if they were just kids, because it wasn't about their bodies, it was about what was in their minds, it was about, _Hey, if a boy wants me, it means he likes me_, and, _If that girl lets me touch her without screaming Perv, I guess she cares_.

That was so untrue, but it was what they wanted desperately to believe: someone cares for me. She guessed she got that; she got that deeply.

She remembered her dad telling her that was his theory, anyway. She remembered thinking, would her mom have said, _All men want is one thing, and one thing only._ She'd heard that before, from the older girls, and on the television.

She thought, _Shove you, it's not about if he's a man and I'm a girl; it's about that he's my friend!_

She crawled over the seat between them and hoped he wasn't going to ask her to drive. She suddenly wanted to laugh, thinking that she would have to remind him, then, that she was only six.

There was nothing in his voice when he said, "Give me a hug."

She remembered her buddy telling her, that first day they'd met, _Men are animals, they only know how to want one thing. They're pigs._

_Boys are messy,_ she had agreed.

The girl had turned a _You freak_ look on her and snapped, _I'm talking about fucking, what are you talking about?_

Apparently she'd just broken up with her boyfriend, who was a fucking jerk, according to her friend, who'd stepped into quickly, then, but the girl had continued to give her that look, _What are you talking about, freak?_

She'd mouthed quietly, _Mud_, but maybe the girl hadn't heard her. Her friend was telling her about a party that sounded like it was going to be okay.

She hugged him, she wasn't unopposed to a hug herself.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and, fleetingly, she thought, _What for?_ He placed a kiss on her forehead and held her tighter as she struggled.

She managed to get a small arm out a put a decent scratch on his face.

He was crying silently. They would never, ever again be friends; not after this.

She hadn't screamed. It was exactly what she'd wanted to do, but she'd wanted it so much that it was like a blockage, like, in a moment, she would scream, the sound loud and shrill, but right now she was a computer that had froze, and her limbs, now, had frozen with it. She was so still.

"I'm sorry," Lyle breathed, forcing himself not to hold her any tighter, not to hurt her, "I'm sorry."

She let out a terrified, high scream.

He put her back in her seat, made sure she was wearing her seatbelt. "I'm sorry."

He started the car. They drove to the hospital.

* * *

They didn't hold hands as they walked into the hospital, and he didn't try to take her hand. Maybe he wanted to, but, if nothing else, he was well aware that, at the moment, she never wanted him to touch her again, and she would hurt him if he did. She wouldn't hold back; she'd hurt him with everything hurtful in her.

She saw her mother, her face was pale, she'd been crying. She saw her mother's eyes go first to Lyle, then to her, then back to Lyle. Why the fuck had he brought her _here_? What kind of an insensitive fuck was he? Her mother didn't say this, but she saw it in her eyes. Her mother was keenly aware of, and had a strong aversion to insensitive people; so her mother had once told her in the kitchen over breakfast.

She heard Lyle saying to her mom that she'd told him something, but she tuned out his words. Suddenly, sickeningly, her role became acutely clear, as though, up until this point, she'd been looking at everything from today through a camera lens and had only now struck on the correct focus to be able to see anything with any degree of real clarity.

She wanted to kill Lyle, she wanted him to be dead – not dying, but just dead – but, instead, she pushed aside the gagging feeling she felt and focused on her mother, and said, "I need to tell you something, mommy?"

The look on her mom's face almost killed her; it was the kind of look that said, _What did you do? You didn't _hurt_ him did you? Oh God, please no! Please, please no! No, there must be some mistake! I love you both! I've always loved you both!_

"Dexter isn't sick," she said, instead. She didn't even get loud, or snotty. She was amazingly, ridiculously calm. She was her mother, when she really, really wanted to kill her father. When the yelling was done, and she really felt like she could just take the frypan, or the pot, and bash him to death with it.

Her mother was slow on catching on, as though her tears had made her sleepy. "What?"

"Someone hurt him, mommy."

Her mother grabbed her and pulled her toward her, and, for a second, Eddie thought she was going to shake her, but she placed a hand on her head instead, her eyes going quickly to Lyle, for the briefest of moments.

"Mommy, we have to tell someone who can stop the person from hurting Dexter again," she said.

The police came, and suddenly, she noticed, it was just her mom and her; Lyle had gone.

The police asked her about her brother. How had he been hurt, who had hurt him?

So Eddie told them. Everything she knew, she told them. And she lied.

She lied and said she'd seen it; she'd seen it as in she'd been there and saw it happening. That wasn't true; she never had. She'd never been there to protect her little brother. She'd been in class, learning. She'd been trying to try so, so _hard_. Trying and losing. She'd been thinking, _Why is it so easy for him?_ And she'd been mad, mad as Hell, that it had been!

She cried. She wanted to kill that woman! The woman who had hurt her brother! She didn't want to hurt her; she just wanted to extinguish her! She couldn't stop crying. She was her mother, crying, dying at the thought that someone had hurt her baby, that maybe she had, that maybe she hadn't been careful enough, maybe she hadn't taken enough care, shown enough attention, maybe she'd passed something along; Oh God, what if this didn't stop? What if there was nothing that could stop it? What if she, they, lost him?

And she was Edna, she was a little girl, she just wanted to hold her family; she just wanted them all to be safe again. But maybe, maybe they'd never been that. A person was always safe until they weren't.

She was Eddie. She wanted a hug.

She was the only one.

* * *

Her mom took her home, later; she would have to go back to the hospital, she would stay with Dexter.

The sitter wanted to leave; Lyle said he would stay. Eddie didn't even look at him. She thought she might kill him if she did.

She waited for her mom to ask about his scratch. It didn't happen. Her mom left again.

"Eddie…"

She walked off past him, to her parents' bedroom, and shut the door. She was so over him; she didn't want him to be her friend, and she didn't want to be his friend – ever.

She lay down on her parents' bed and picked at the dried blood underneath her fingernail, thinking of how she would kill the teacher's aide if she was only old enough, only strong, only smart enough. Maybe she would poison her, she thought.

Maybe she would poison Lyle.

_Don't even think like that_, she told herself angrily, _Daddy would hate you thinking like that._ If she could tell her father anything, at that moment, it would be, _But, Daddy, some people deserve it._

She closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep. She wanted the time to just melt away, for all of the trouble to just melt away. Maybe she'd sleep through it all.

She scrunched up into a ball.

_You're a selfish bitch!_

* * *

Debbie was at Jules's, but still, Dolphy woke early. It was just a thing with her; she'd always just woken up early. She sat down with a hot coffee and checked her cell phone; there weren't any messages from Debbie, or even anyone else whose number was listed in her Address Book.

There was only one message.

She didn't have to freak out over whose number it was, that it wasn't listed in her Address Book, to know who it was from. Obviously, it wasn't from some random weirdo, or simply a case of wrong number.

It was calculated, and very painful. She knew it was true, but she knew, also, that it would have been painful. And maybe, now, he wished that he hadn't sent it.

She wanted, more than anything, to reply, but she just couldn't bring herself to hurt him any more.

She read the message again, before clicking out of her Message Inbox.

_I love you._

_Me, too,_ she thought, and sipped her coffee, glad for the comfort its familiarity and warmth brought. She'd never needed him to tell her that to know it was true.


	3. Chapter 3

_Three months later_

The world, she was sure, as she woke each morning, was determined to make her suffer. It had been months since that lunatic woman had been caught, since she'd been stopped, but for all that had done, she swore, things had only got worse. Now, the children at her kids' school had started calling Dexter names, and Eddie had taken offence with her fists. She was six! She shouldn't have been hitting anyone, she shouldn't have needed to!

She'd gotten lazy, too; and she was angry all of the time. It wasn't fair. Her daughter could get mad, but she was the only one, because she simply couldn't afford to lose it, not even for a second. Dexter had been forced into abusing another girl – an older, but intellectually disabled girl – and she wasn't allowed to be angry about that, because she couldn't bear to hurt her son, she couldn't be angry about that because her daughter was angry enough for the both of them, and she was so afraid of encouraging it.

When she'd brought up the subject of therapists, Eddie had promptly told her that her father had said she didn't need to see one. She'd asked why, straightaway, of course, but had been met with the cold shoulder.

A few days later, it was I had a dream, and that's when Daddy told me. He said you'd try this. I don't need a fucking therapist!

The parents of the girl who Dexter had abused wanted to sue. Whilst her appetite had fallen away, her daughter's had gone off skew, and now she didn't want proper food, she wanted sugary, colourful junk all the time. She'd gotten heavier.

She refused to think of her daughter as fat.

She'd started to ignore people at work, their trumped-up, mechanical aghast, their contrived disgust for her and her children, sickened her. What the fuck would they know!

Lyle had gone with her to look for a decent lawyer, in case one was needed. She'd had no idea how she would afford the lawyer, but Lyle had said it was no problem. This wasn't Dexter's fault only-

For all of her precious resolve, she'd lost it then. It wasn't Dexter's fault _period_! What a fucking cunt! Whose side was he on anyway – that sick bitch's, or his little brother's?!

They'd taken Lyle's car, and, in anger, she'd walked away. She'd ended up walking all the way home. She'd got home, then she'd dropped right off to sleep. She hadn't woken again until 2 A.M.

Dexter had rang Lyle, and he'd come around, she found out in the morning. She said nothing to Lyle when he'd been explaining this to her; she didn't even question him; _Dexter_ had rung, not Eddie!

She walked to Eddie's room and found that Dexter hadn't slept in his own bed, but with his sister, in hers. He was curled up tightly beside her and she had her back to him. She was scowling in her sleep.

She shut the door and left them to sleep.

Of course, she knew all about Lyle's compassion for kids. His own son had been murdered, and did that hurt him, did that give him pause – shit, no!

In the kitchen, Lyle had made coffee. She sat down to drink a cup and listened to him telling her that he thought it would be a good idea for her to arrange a meeting with the school to discuss Eddie's increasing aggression towards the other kids.

She snorted. The 'other kids,' as he called them, were little fucks! They called her son deranged and teased him with lewd, sexual offers. The whole neighbourhood was sick! If she'd had the fucking money, she'd send her kids to a private school.

She laughed, sipped her coffee again.

She asked him if he'd take Eddie to the aquatics centre; she needed to do something physical, she needed something to _do_. All kids loved the water.

He nodded.

The kids already had yearly passes; he could take Dexter whilst he was at it, she added absently, and rose to refill her cup.

* * *

Eddie ranted from the backseat about homophobes. (The teacher's aide had said that's why she'd done what she had; she'd been trying to fix the girl, Chamberlain. If the girl hadn't been wrong, if she hadn't been so affectionate towards other girls, she wouldn't have ever done anything. She'd been trying to help her; Dexter wasn't a bad kid, he was an angel, he'd understood what she'd been doing; he'd been her wonderful, little helper. His sister was a spoiled bitch! Dibber-dobber! Prima donna!

She was the one who was sick, the one who was fucked up! And hey, if they were looking for someone to blame, why didn't they start with Chae's parents. It was blindly obvious that they'd made her that way; that they'd interfered with her somehow; physically or mentally, what did it matter! It was all the same shit!)

Eddie couldn't stop. They were a menace! Why didn't they get over themselves! The whole world was fucked anyway!

Lyle didn't ask her where she'd picked that word up from, but instead, he said, "Eddie, I would appreciate if you didn't talk about these things in front of your brother."

She kicked the back of his seat.

"Eddie, don't kick the seat."

She did it again.

He ignored her. He switched the radio on.

Eddie cackled.

* * *

Eddie didn't want to go in the water, at the aquatics centre. She hated the shit, and the chlorine! She wanted snacks from the snack machine.

"No," he told her.

She fumed at him silently.

Dexter didn't want to go in the water, either. Not if his sister didn't.

Eddie shouted at him, "Fuck you! No, fuck Chamberlain Kennedy! You had no problem with it before! You didn't need me there before!"

Dexter went chalk white.

Eddie laughed.

Lyle took her aside to have a word with her about her behaviour. She ignored him; turning her face away to watch the people coming into the aquatics centre from outside.

He shook her arm to get her to look at him.

She screamed at the top of her lungs.

When one of the aquatics workers arrived, she said he'd tried to touch her.

Annoyed, Lyle told the worker that he was her uncle.

"He's a liar!" she shrieked, hysterical. "He touched me."

From the sidelines, a firm voice spoke up. "He is." Dexter stood glaring at his older sister.

"You dirty child molester!" Eddie bellowed, her face red with anger.

They were asked to leave.

It was Lyle's fault, of course.

He took them to the esplanade, promising to buy ice-creams. It was Hell finding a parking space, the whole of Blue Cove had suddenly decided they wanted to take a walk down by the beach; still, there was hardly anyone around.

Dexter didn't want an ice-cream. Eddie said she'd have his. Lyle didn't argue; he asked Dexter if he wanted something else. A drink, hot chips.

"No," was the only response.

"Yes!" Eddie crowed. She wanted hot chips! With ketchup!

"You can't have both, Eddie," Lyle told her. "It's ice-cream or it's chips."

She made a sour face. "You're a freak!" she hissed.

He nodded. That'd be right, wouldn't it!

When she was asking for the ice-creams, Eddie made up her mind that she wanted a drink, too. A fizzy raspberry thing.

Lyle decided, the Hell with it, he wasn't embarrassing himself for her benefit, he'd get her the stupid soft drink.

She grinned, knowing she'd won.

Dexter said he didn't want to go back to the aquatics centre next week.

"It's not negotiable, Dexter," Lyle snapped. "You go if your mother says you go."

Dexter threw up.

Eddie shrieked and streaked away from them in overdone disgust. She was trying to eat! Eww!

Lyle didn't bother going after her. He hoped she got lost. She was a fucking shit. Her behaviour was uncalled for. Couldn't she see how hard her mom and he were trying, how hard her _little brother_ was trying!

He tried to hug Dexter, but Dexter wasn't buying it. He wanted Eddie!

* * *

At work, Fulton said nothing to the idiots who'd decided that Lyle was only spending so much time 'round at her place because they'd gotten together. She wouldn't even bite. They were assholes!

The day Eddie was suspended for cussing out one of her teachers, Lyle told her that, if it was necessary, and that was the way it was looking, he'd pay for the private school. Education was important, as much as it was damaging; it was a necessity.

She screamed at him; Oh, and by 'damaging' he meant when the teacher's aide coerced your son into sexually abusing the other students!

In fact, he had been talking about institutionalisation in general, he replied.

She threw him out of the house.

He stayed outside, in the front yard, until she let him back in. He'd have to stay with Eddie so that she could pick Alvin up from day care and later, Dexter up from school.

She didn't talk to him; if she did, she'd only make it worse for them both. She hated him; he was Raines's son, he wasn't hers!

At school, Dexter had gone off speaking when he'd discovered his sister missing. The school rang her early to come in and pick him up. She did so without complaint; on the way getting there, she cried. She'd forgotten all about Dex; what kind of a _mother_ did that!

* * *

When she returned home, Eddie came running to her, in tears, and threw herself on her. She'd contrived some BS that she'd known very well was just that, about Lyle touching her. Fulton didn't care if it was rubbish; she threatened to call the cops if he didn't leave.

He left, no questions asked.

As she was slamming the door on him, she caught Eddie's secret smile.

She sent the kids to their rooms, and sat down on her bed in her own. She wanted to cry. She held her tears inside. With a blinding flash of clarity she realised what had to happen.

She drove off to pick Alvin up, leaving the kids' care in Eddie's hands.

They would move, she decided, as she drove, and, when she pulled up in the day care parking lot, she was unmoveable in her resolve.


	4. Chapter 4

Taking the box out of the wardrobe, Emily found her old diary, hidden underneath various slips of paper, pamphlets and the like. She opened to the first page, it was dated to 1986. The first line read: _My name is Emily. This is my diary. No, I don't like that word. Diary is a word for babies. This is my journal._

She frowned, and read on: _This is Emily. I am in a hospital. The name doesn't matter. Nothing from now matters. I can't remember. I need to remember. I don't want to know the hospital's name, I don't want to know my stupid name! I hate it! I don't know why. It's as though it's not even my real name. It is though. I wish I knew why I wished it wasn't. I wish I knew anything! I wish I could remember._

The third day read: _I can't remember._ And that was how it went on, like some obscure form of Chinese water torture, always those same words, only those same words: _I can't remember._

She slammed the cover shut, tears in her eyes. What was wrong with her?! Shouldn't she have remembered something by now?! Suddenly, it seemed to her, that if she was never to recover those lost years, that… that she just didn't care anymore; that she just didn't want to live anymore.

Kneeling on the floor, the diary in her hands and the box she'd taken it from sitting beside her, she hunched over her legs and cried. And cried.

* * *

She knew she shouldn't have, but she couldn't stop herself. She knew she should have rung her mother, or anyone else. For fuck's sake – even Jarod! But she didn't ring her mother, or even her brother. She couldn't even think like that.

She sunk down the wall, ignoring the telephone now, and took out her cell phone. She found his number in her Address Book, and clicked the button to call. She was shaking. Tears dribbled down her face. She felt like burning that fucking diary! Like throwing it to the floor and stomping on it, like ripping every last page out; like burying it in the backyard and never thinking about it again.

Her voice was awful when she spoke, not really like words at all.

She shouldn't have been doing this.

She wanted to stop. At least, she was aware of the notion that she _should_ want to stop.

But she just… needed… She just needed… Something!

When she'd ended the call, she sat against the wall, shaking and crying.

She was disgusting. She hated herself.

* * *

The day before, she'd got Snow off to school camp by promising him $200 when he got back. He needed the interaction with the other kids, she'd told herself, but she couldn't drive away the feeling that she'd taken the easy option out, that she'd let her son down.

It was only for three days, she should have been able to talk him 'round some other way. She should have been able to think of some way to cheer him up, some story about a camp she could remember going on as a kid and loving, but she hadn't been able to remember ever having done so.

She felt fake.

She hated herself.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and waited.

* * *

With the knock on the door, she opened her eyes and rose slowly. She'd been lying on the couch; Farfalla was asleep, she'd put some music on quietly, then switched it off again. She hadn't been in the mood. So she'd just shut her eyes and listened to the quiet.

She walked to the front door, a part of her praying it was Margaret, or Harmony.

It was late. The drive from Blue Cove would have taken three hours, or about there. Her steps were slow; suddenly, she was tired. She wanted to go back to the couch and lie down; she was sure she'd be able to get off to sleep, at last.

For a moment, a real moment, she considered doing just that; ignoring the knock on the door and going back into the lounge room to sleep on her couch. It occurred to her, a second later, how pathetic that was. She had a room with a bed, why the fuck couldn't she sleep in that?

She reached for the lock on the door. Just for a moment, before she pulled the door open, she touched her face. It was dry.

She didn't ask how the drive had been; she thought about it, and junked it. Why would she care? That's not how they were; he'd told her as much himself: _In another life_, he'd said.

"Take me away," she said.

"Where would you like to go?"

She pushed him against the door she'd just closed. Oh, fuck him!

* * *

They were sitting on the floor, and he was holding her. She wanted to punch him. She just knew it was for no other reason than that he was scared of letting her go, of giving her the chance to try anything again. It always had to be according to his rules.

She wanted to kill him.

She wondered if he was hoping she was someone else; if he'd have been okay with it if she'd been someone else, someone more like his type: Asian, younger.

Maybe he was just throwing it back in her face; she'd been the one who'd told him she didn't like kissing.

She felt like yelling, _If you'd given me half a chance, jerk!_ She supposed she should have found someone else; maybe she would, too. Then who would he have?

Did he have a girlfriend? Was that it? She wanted to ask, but she knew she didn't really want to know the answer; she knew he'd only look on her as a nosy, jealous cow. She didn't need to make matters worse for herself that way; he already knew she was a loser. If she'd wanted to hook up with someone else, she'd have done it already. That would be his line. Yeah, she could almost hear it.

"Snow's on camp," she heard herself telling him. "Until Thursday."

He was silent.

She shifted the topic, hoping that would help, "How was the drive?"

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

That one got her. "I'm not doing anything," she replied, not denying his words so much as not playing into his game. So, he was clever, she wasn't half bad, either.

"You despise me," he said, an observation of a truth, nothing more.

She forced herself not to turn on the offensive, not to shout, _And whose fucking truth is that? You think you'd even know what was true and what wasn't, you lunatic!_ She asked, "Does it even matter?" Bored; unenquiring. She didn't really want his answer, not at all, she couldn't give a _fuck_ about his answer; she hadn't really been asking, she'd been stating a fact.

"THEN WHY TELL ME ABOUT YOUR SON!" he yelled, startling her. "WHY ASK ME HOW THE DRIVE WAS?"

He was pissed off; what was new. He was throwing her words back in her face; the same old game: but you said; now try to deny that!

"He's your son, too," she told him, refraining from a _Need I remind you_ tone. She imagined he might actually kill her if she tried that.

He shot to his feet, and she found herself following, involuntarily. "Oh, no!" he shouted; angry, but not quite as loud, this time. "No! You made it pretty fucking abundantly clear that he was anything _but_!"

She crossed her arms; she wasn't going to allow him to wind her up. "If you didn't want to come, you needn't have," she told him plainly.

For a second, she thought he might hit her; she wasn't scared, it was just a thought she had. Then it was gone, and he was kissing her.

She didn't complain. The shouting had hurt her ears.

* * *

"Could you do it?" she asked, later, in the bedroom. She looked over at him, and realised that he was asleep; she'd woken up a few minutes ago and let her thoughts take her where they wanted.

She sat up and shook him awake.

He patted her hand.

She made a face. _I'm not your sister_, she thought. "Wake up," she told him.

He opened his eyes and frowned at her.

The lamp was on.

He blinked.

"I want to know," she stated. "Do you have the Inner Sense?"

"Why do you want to know?" he asked.

She couldn't tell if he was annoyed over her question, or for being woken so abruptly. She didn't care, either. She was starting to get annoyed herself. "Can you help me or not?" she snapped.

"Help you with what?" he asked, smiling now.

She contented herself to glare at him; she felt like fucking smacking him with the lamp. "_With what?_" she imitated stupidly. "My amnesia, you imbecile!"

"The imbecile isn't sure what you're asking, I'm afraid," he replied.

"Can you tell me anything that might help me _remember_?!" she hissed nastily.

"They're my Voices; they're attached to me, not you," he explained. "I don't know."

She glared, her chest heaving.

"Why are you so angry?" he asked.

She ignored his stupidity and climbed off the bed, returning, a short while later, with her old diary. She smacked it down on the bed, opened to somewhere in the middle of the diary, and shoved it at him.

He sat up straighter and shuffled toward the lamp, frowning to make out the words.

She crossed her arms; cold now.

He looked up at her, after some moments, and handed her back the diary.

She uncrossed her arms to take it.

"I don't have the Inner Sense, Emily," he told her. She almost thought he sounded affectionate. "I'm a Pretender."

Furious, she began ripping the pages out of her diary, and didn't stop until her took hold of her and held her too tightly for her to do much of anything.

She didn't cry; she wanted to kill him.

* * *

They'd lain back down, but now she could hear him moving around, picking up all of the pages she'd ripped out of her little diary. She didn't open her eyes; she was waiting for Farfalla to wake up.

A moment later, she heard him leave the room in a hurry.

She snapped open her eyes, suspicious. She got up, and rushed out of her room. She found him in the bathroom, throwing up. "I always fuck everything up," he told her, and she noticed, then, that he was crying.

Suddenly, she was unnerved.

She didn't move any closer, but stayed just inside the door. "What's wrong with you?" she heard herself ask, sometime later.

He didn't reply; he was throwing up again.

She stalked across the room and grabbed him arm, forcing him to look at her.

"It hurts," he said.

"What hurts?" she asked ridiculously. He didn't have feelings!

"My head."

She said nothing, then, "Do you want a Panadol?"

For a moment, she thought he was going to say, _No._ She was ready with her reply, already, _Fuck you, bastard!_

He reached out a hand to touch her face, but she grabbed his wrist, and held it away from her in disgust.

"You've got a blood nose," she spat, and dropped his hand.

She turned her back on him and walked out of the bathroom.

* * *

She brought him back a glass of water and two Panadol tablets from the kitchen, and left again. She needed to check on Farfalla.

An hour later, she tramped into the lounge and scowled. She'd been going to sit down on the couch, switch on the telly, and flick through the channels. He'd fallen asleep on the couch; she couldn't very well throw him off it.

She sat down on the carpet beside the couch. She leant over to smell his hair. Apple. That explained that, she supposed.

She patted his face, gazing steadily back into his bleary eyes. "Come back with me to the bedroom," she said. "A couch is no place to sleep."

* * *

It was still dark when she opened her eyes, so she assumed, at first, that it had been the sound of a car door slamming, or a fight between a couple of the neighbourhood cats that had startled her into wakefulness. She wasn't cold, but she felt slightly upset. She'd been happily sleeping.

She turned over, toward the window, and the warm body lying next to her.

"What are you doing?"

The angered hiss sent a thrill of panic rushing through her body, jolting her into sharp awareness; her heart pounding hard in her chest.

She shot up into a sitting position, and found that the hiss had been her mother's. The moment of confusion she felt gave way to a quick, violent apprehension. Of course her mother knew where she lived; of course she'd been able to get in without her knowing, she'd given her the key, they lived in the same town. The man lying asleep beside her wasn't her husband. She didn't have a husband, anymore; he'd remarried another woman.

Her mother's face was unreadable in the darkness; she assumed that the silhouette standing beside her was Harmony.

Margaret reached over to switch the lamp on, and Emily found herself blinking profusely, reaching blindly for the lamp. "Don't," she whispered. "That hurts."

"Cut out the crap!" Margaret snapped.

Emily frowned at her seriously, her eyes adjusting, finally, to the sudden brightness.

"I know who that is!" her mother hissed viciously.

Emily looked at Harmony; she looked worried. She sat up; they couldn't have this talk here, they'd have to do it in the kitchen, or the lounge.

She'd make coffee.

"Are you alright?" Harmony asked quietly, as though she couldn't possibly be; as though he must have done something to her, hurt her in some way.

Emily felt a stab of annoyance. For a brief, flickering second, she thought she would snap, _I'm not his type, Harm!_ She said nothing; her bare feet whined that she'd hadn't stayed in bed, under the blanket, or put some socks on.

Margaret marched ahead of them, everything about her jerky, in anger.

"I'm okay," Emily whispered to Harmony, taking her hand and holding it gently.

Emily got the switch for the kitchen light; the room lit up. The brightness felt cold to her. She walked to the sideboard, collected the electric kettle, and took it to the sink to fill it with water.

During all of this, Margaret said nothing. Harmony stood next to her, unsure whether she should take a seat.

Emily walked back to the sideboard with the kettle and plugged it in, setting it on the boil. She looked at her mother and Harmony, waiting for them to speak, to tell her off.

"This isn't on, Emily," Margaret scowled, moving to stand closer to her; Harmony followed in her lead.

"Do you care about him?" Margaret asked.

Emily laughed; an abrupt, incredulous thing.

Her mother frowned.

She tried to wipe the look off her face, the look that said, _Fuck, no! Not ever! I'd never!_

"Then it's over," Margaret decided for her.

Out of the blue, she snapped, "I'm an adult; I fuck who I want!" She didn't even know why she'd said it; it seemed so horrible, so unfair.

"Harmony's son!"

Emily felt as though she'd been hit with something hard.

Harmony wouldn't look at her.

Margaret stared her right in the eye. "You don't need this, sweetie, and neither does he. Whatever game you're both playing, for whatever reason, it has to stop. It stops now. You're going to stop it, do you hear me?"

Emily shook her head. She didn't understand. "I can't!" she gasped, suddenly out of breath. "He's Snow's father."

"The boy's done without his father for enough years," her mother replied, _so_ cool. "I wouldn't wish it on anyone that that thing was their father."

Emily stared at Harmony.

"Please, please don't play into his games, honey," Harmony implored her. "He's not right. He hasn't been right for a long, long time. Can't you see that? I don't know why you're doing this to yourself, but you can't help him; not even his sister can."

"I'm not his fucking sister!" she shouted, gasping for air. She choked, and started coughing. God, she needed her puffer. It was up in her room, where Lyle was.

"Don't you think I would dearly love to help him, too, if I could?" Harmony asked. "He's my son."

"How is he your son?" Emily yelled, angry and pleading, eyes blurry with watery tears.

"I'm Catherine Parker," Harmony told her.

Emily coughed and laughed, tears pouring down her face. Margaret passed her the new puffer she'd picked up for her from the pharmacy out of town; her old one was due to expire any day.


	5. Chapter 5

She walked back to her bedroom and sat down on the end of the bed for a while. It was hard to think. She wanted to lie back down and close her eyes; she just wanted to sleep, but she knew she'd have to wake Lyle soon. It was a three hour drive back to Blue Cove, and he had work in the morning.

She sat up straighter and got up from the end of the bed, walking over to the side of the bed and leaning down to shake his arm. "Wake up." She gave his arm another shake.

"What time is it?" he finally asked, sleepy still.

"Five."

"It's too early," he said.

She shook his arm again. "You've got work," she reminded him.

He opened his eyes and frowned, trying to grab her free hand, but she crossed her arms, lifting it out of his reach.

"Bossy," he mumbled.

She ignored that comment.

"Why are you up?" he asked, when he'd woken up enough to sit up.

"I was thirsty," she lied.

"Couldn't you sleep?"

"No, I told you," she snapped in irritation, "I was thirsty."

She wasn't quick enough to stop him from pulling her into his lap. She glared.

"Can I see you tonight?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

"Replacing me already?" he joked.

"I'll make you a coffee." She pulled away from him, and stalked out of the room.

* * *

She was standing with her arms crossed, glaring at the kettle as she waited on it to boil, when he came into the kitchen. She didn't turn around, determined to ignore him.

He walked up behind her and put his arms around her.

She resisted the urge to elbow him. If he'd wanted something to hug, he should have brought Sydney, his supposed daughter's toy penguin. She still didn't believe that one.

If he had a grown daughter, and she'd inherited anything off him, she was sure the kid would want nothing more than to do him in for his part in her mom's death, and the deaths of all of the other women he'd killed.

She tried to think of something else; she was starting to feel ill.

He placed a hand on her abdomen, underneath her pyjama shirt.

She glared harder at the kettle, resolving that she would have to look around for a new one when she had the time to go down to the shops.

"Do you know what I thought, when I saw you when you were pregnant with Snow, and it was starting to show properly for the first time? I thought, _She's gorgeous!_"

She suppressed a harsh laugh, and snapped, "Fuck you!"

"That's the truth," he replied. "I did think that, and you were. You still are."

"And I'll tell you what I think," she told him flatly. "You're a lying bastard! How's that?"

"I think we both know that you owe me."

She laughed coldly. "Excuse me?"

"You're the one who got that dumb fucking Tower bitch involved. You're just as responsible for Reagan's death as she is! You got your kid back; I didn't! You owe me."

Emily rounded on his suddenly, her eyes hard with anger, "_I_ got her involved!" she screamed.

"It was all you, sunshine," Lyle replied, smiling falsely.

"I'm not the one who _fucked_ with the Tower's project," she hissed, her chest heaving.

"Come on, you were asking for it! All you Russells are the same! You can't get enough attention!"

"You sick fucking cunt!" she breathed.

"Oh, and, before I forget, might I add, distasteful! I suppose it's not your fault, though, you probably learnt that from your father. He was in the Air Force, wasn't he? Like I said, though, you owe me. My sister really misses that little mongrel."

"Then why don't you go fuck your sister!"

He laughed. "Oh, I'm sure your brother would be pleased to hear you say that!"

"My brother will be pleased when I've put a _bullet_ in your fucking _head_!" she spat. She was shaking, she realised suddenly. She heard the kettle click off, finally, but didn't turn around.

Lyle smiled. "You're so cute!"

Emily glared at him. She was better than him, though. She wouldn't want to get his blood on her, and if she'd wanted to kill him, the only thing she conceivably had on hand was the kettle, or, if she was quick, a knife from the draining board.

"Come on, Russell, I bet your mom loves grandkids," Lyle told her.

"If you fucking touch me, I'll kill you!"

The truth was that her mom did love grandkids, but not his kids. She was scared of Snow, he was a little creep, even Emily had to agree on that, sometimes, but she was his mom, and she was determined not to give up on him.

If he turned out like his father, she'd buy a gun and put a bullet through his head, she decided then.

"I have to say, I've heard that before," Lyle confided. "But what do you know, I'm still here. Women, they always let you down. They never keep their promises. Personally, I'd been hoping you were different."

"Get out of my house!" she ordered, her voice shaking tremendously.

"_Your_ house? That's new. I thought you said it was Jarod who'd paid for it. Wouldn't that make it his house, in that case?"

"I live here," she hissed, "_Jarod doesn't!_ Get the fuck out!"

"I guess coffee's out of the question?"

"GET OUT!"

"What a fucking slag! Does Jarod know you're like this?"

She leapt at the kitchen sink and wrapped her shaking fingers around it, pointing it at him threatening.

Lyle laughed. "That's just insulting, Russell," he told her, and turned and walked out. He slammed the front door on his way out.

Emily didn't let go of the knife.

* * *

It was a couple of minutes after he'd gotten back to his car that it started to rain, but he wasn't interested in the rain, as unseasonable as it may have been.

Maybe that was strange, maybe not.

He was trying not to cry, and his head had started hurting again. He had no wish to upset his sister, and, in his condition, he wasn't so sure the distance would be of much help. He didn't know what she was doing at the moment, exactly, but she was no more gloomy than usual. She was probably at home, drinking coffee; not eating breakfast.

_No_, he thought, _it's Wednesday, she'll be having breakfast because that's when Debbie comes over to have it with her; she likes to look like she eats in front of Debbie._ He felt consoled, if only minimally. His sister really didn't eat enough; she wasn't a bad looking woman, but she was underweight.

She'd had a bit more weight on her when she'd been really drinking, but then the cigarettes had killed her appetite. It had all been very unhealthy. He was glad Debbie had decided to take the time to have breakfast with her; he was glad she'd been able to convince his sister to allow her to do so.

He never said anything about it to her, but then, nobody expected him to. That wasn't how it worked with them; he didn't let himself show her that sort of concern, it would only appear suspicious.

He stared at the rain, coming down on the windshield, and told himself it was really okay; he could go now. Emily wouldn't want to have anything to do with him after this, it was okay. He could go.

He got out the car key and started the engine. He'd have to have a look at it later, that was the thing about newer cars, they needed constant, regular servicing; they had no tolerance for humour, not for a second.

* * *

Margaret sat in the lounge room of her apartment, nervously glancing at the telephone every five minutes. She prayed Emily and Farfalla would be alright with that lunatic in the house, but she'd had no other choice but to leave Farfalla and leave the house. She couldn't risk him discovering that she and Harmony had found out about Emily's involvement with him, and she had a good idea that to stay in the vicinity of the house would have only certainly ended in that.

Harmony was sitting on the sofa, making an effort to look as though she was reading a novel, though Margaret figured that that was all it was, a show.

Harmony loved Emily like her own daughter, that was how Margaret had been able to convince her that they couldn't tell Emily the truth. They had no way of knowing whether Emily had been programmed whilst she'd been at the Center, and so, they had been careful not to make any threats against him, but to make it seem as though they were just worried for her safety.

Margaret had the inescapable feeling that he wasn't, as she had long thought, a Pretender, but rather an Empath. It was the only explanation she could come up with to explain how they'd not been seen by those men that time in the plaza; how they'd walked right by them without seeing them. He was an Empath, and a good one, at that. And that also made him very dangerous.

It had been when they'd first met up with Jarod, she remembered, that Harmony had come to her asking about her past. Oh, she'd queried over it plenty of times before that, but Miss Parker really was the last straw. The thing was, Harmony remembered that she'd looked just like her, in her younger days, so, at that point, it became unavoidable. So she'd told her everything she knew.

The plan, the news of her death, labelled, then, a suicide, and then William, turning up one day with the dead woman, who wasn't, in fact, dead at all, and leaving her with her. They'd been best friends, they'd attended school together, she told Harmony all of it; she even told her how she'd been told by Raines that her son had died; she could still remember the phone call, when she'd passed along the news to her best friend. She hadn't cried, she'd known that crying wasn't going to change it; she'd tried to be understanding.

Without knowing who Harmony had once been, Jarod had filled in some of the details on that one, and she'd been glad for it. She'd been glad Harmony had finally learnt part of the truth; it had been so hard for her to keep it all from her for as long as she had, but she'd known that it was always for the best.

When Harmony had learnt that she was Miss Parker and Lyle's mother, she had, at first, had very little to say on the matter. Gradually, little by little, she had began to tell Margaret things, and still more, she would ask her little things about her daughter. They had lived together until her 'death' when the girl had been ten. She was curious about her daughter; Jarod still believed he could help her, if he could just get through to her. Harm, it seemed to her, had taken on the same opinion. She'd been the girl's mother in a way she'd never been Lyle's; she couldn't care less about Lyle, she told her friend, one day; he was a lying, murdering son-on-a-bitch and she hoped he died and went to Hell, not that she believed in Hell, but she had a feeling that maybe he did. Jarod had said his mother, Elsie Bowman, had been a regular churchgoer, and that she'd taken her son with her, on those occasions.

For a long couple of minutes, Margaret had been vaguely disconcerted, and then she had decided, well, that was Harmony's choice. She'd never met Kyle as an adult, and she had no way of knowing if she'd have thought the same thing of him. Then again, Kyle hadn't got around murdering young women for fun.

From across the room, the phone started to ring.

Harmony dropped the book she'd been 'reading,' and rushed to pick it up.

* * *

Emily couldn't piece her thoughts together, she was standing in the kitchen, still holding the knife; she didn't seem able to let go of it, or to move.

Everything was all so foggy, so unclear.

She remembered, slowly, that she'd promised to ring her mom once she'd sent him away, and suddenly, the knife dropped out of her still shaking hands. It clattered to the floor by her bare feet, and she stepped over it, hardly caring that she might have stepped on it or stabbed her foot when she'd dropped it.

She couldn't lift her feet enough not to shuffle. She walked over into the hall, leaving the kitchen, and stopped by the phone. Her hands shook as she keyed in her mother's number, but, surprisingly, she found that she could remember every digit of the number without having to pause for a second of contemplation.

She waited for it to pick up on the other end of the line, her hand shaking, and the phone with it.

She heard the ringing cut off, a sign that it had been answered.

"I did it."

* * *

_It's okay_, he had to keep telling himself that. He felt like throwing up, but if he didn't get a move on, he'd be late getting into work, and that wasn't a laughing matter.

His sister, he decided, had just woken up. She hadn't been having a particularly bad dream, but, on opening her eyes, the rain had depressed her. She just hadn't wanted it to be one of those days; a rainy day. She'd been ready for a bright, sunny day. She'd been looking forward to wearing her sunglasses; not a bloody coat.

She didn't get up, she wanted the rain to bugger off. She stared at the ceiling and listened to it; _Pound, pound, pound_, it said, on the roof.

Finally, she sat up. She was sick of listening to the rain. It was at her window, too. _Knock, knock, knock._ She had to get up, wake up, and stop lamenting on the rain. It wasn't as though she could stop it if she tried. "Madam, I believe you are mistaken," she joked to herself. "You see, were you to purchase one of our durable, _fashionable_ umbrellas, I think you will find yourself amazed. You will, indeed, be able to stop the rain."

She burst out laughing.

He smiled.

The rain was still coming down outside in buckets; it didn't show signs of stopping for hours, at least. He'd be home, by then, back in Blue Cove.

* * *

Harmony hugged Emily, holding her close to her, as though she could make it all okay that way. She'd much rather Emily had been her daughter than Lyle her son, but that wasn't how it had happened. Margaret had got Emily, instead, and she'd got a lunatic son.

As long as Emily didn't want her to, she wouldn't let go of her, she decided. They'd only just got her back, it seemed, she wasn't letting go, not just yet.


	6. Chapter 6

Jarod sat silently as his mother explained to Ethan, Mo and he of Emily's recent activities. He did not interrupt; he could tell that she needed to speak her piece. Then, when she'd done, he did not add anything. He didn't know what Margaret knew of Convergence, but he was saving anything on the subject for when he'd built a strong enough case.

Unlike Sydney – whose official line was that he didn't believe a word of it, but that, if pressed, who would go so far as to admit that he believed that others believed, and that that was what gave it its power – he did believe in it. He'd experienced it, though in the capacity as an outsider; he'd shared residual Convergence with Parker when they'd both been children, and, even before that, he'd felt what it had felt like to be in the presence of others who shared Convergence. He didn't know that it was the same for everyone, he didn't even assume that it was, he just wondered if he'd know, if he met Emily and Lyle together, if they truly had Convergence or not.

Wouldn't it be convenient, then?

There was, always, the question regarding his attempt to 'take' her out. As much as he wished his sister did not have Convergence with this person, he could not discount the possibility; but, again, the attempted murder troubled him.

His mother had offered him her theory, that Lyle was not a Pretender, but an Empath, and he'd thought, Would that offer him any measure of distance from what he'd tried to do to Emily, or would it make it worse?

Sometimes, he couldn't sleep for the worry. He wanted so badly to stop Lyle, even to hurt him, but never, ever to hurt Emily; never to hurt his little sister.

Maybe Lyle had figured this out about him, and that was the reason he'd sought to get closer to Emily, to further their connection, so that he'd know that if he did anything to him, there would be repercussions – and that those repercussions would be aimed directly at Emily. As much as he could see the sense in this from Lyle's point of view, it hurt him, too. His sister wasn't a toy, no human being – no living being, for that matter – was, but that would never sink into Lyle's head; everything was just a game for him, everyone just a toy; a game that he'd do anything to win.

It wasn't fair, he often thought, that Emily had to be dragged into that game; then again, it wasn't unfair or fair, it was just what had happened. He didn't believe in a higher power the way Catherine had, the way Parker had been raised to; he believed in people, in living things, and in their power, in the power of combined wills, and combined fears, of majorities and minorities, and maybe, just maybe, he believed that something of the mind existed after the body's death; that a new mind was really just an older mind, and that it held onto its past incarnations in physical form like fragments, or a child's rock collection, and even though they could not be recalled to mind at will, consciously, they built something, did something, to the mind that was being constructed for this new persona.

He wondered if that was why Emily and Lyle had Convergence, because they'd known each other from before, or if it was merely a biological matter. So often, people would bandy around words like _soul mate_ and _true love_ and _the One_, but maybe it was all just biology and chemistry. He didn't, after all, believe that Lyle could love anyone; but perhaps he was being too harsh, perhaps it was merely his mind that couldn't love someone, and his body still told him, _No, I don't mind her, she seems nice; there's something about her that I like._ He didn't consider it a romantic notion, it just seemed to make sense.

Then again, who was he to say who'd never found his Convergence partner, never consolidated that link.

He couldn't help thinking, though, that it would have been amusing if it hadn't happened to his sister, if Lyle hadn't been quite as dangerous as he was; it would have been what he deserved.

He wondered if it made Lyle hate Emily – if he thought she was a witch – or if he blocked even that, any sentiment, any feeling at all, that might connect him to another living being.

He really did wonder.

* * *

Naturally, Ethan was furious. It seemed to be his way; to react violently (in that something was deeply felt, not in that he would necessary fly off the handle and resort to aggression), or not at all.

Mo was quiet, lost in his thoughts. At last, he asked, "Do you think he's hoping she'll give us up? Not just Jarod, but the lot of us?"

"I don't know," Margaret replied swiftly, "and I can't say as I'd much want to contemplate the thoughts of a monster like that!"

Mo seemed to take that, and turn it over in his mind for a long while, whilst Ethan sat fuming.

Jarod realised that he was hungry; it was almost lunchtime. He supposed Sydney would advise him to have a bit of sensitivity; now was not the opportune time to bring up his hunger. _You could say that,_ he thought, _but you're not the one who's hungry, are you?_

Food was a necessity, and sometimes, as awful as it seemed, necessities had to come first; Margaret's anger would not dissipate because she put it on hold for a few minutes, if anything, she would embrace it with renewed vigour on her return to it, thinking herself neglectful, or selfish, for ignoring it for just a second.

That was people, he thought, they were odd things.

If the situation had been different, things would have been different then, too, but from here, now, there was little that could be accomplished, Jarod decided, by malnourishing himself. He liked food, and he couldn't think straight without having had something to eat.

* * *

Parker eyed the fruit platter, contemplating whether she should take something or not. She did like the look of the tropical fruits, but she didn't know that it would go down well on its own, and she wasn't all that keen on biscuits or sandwiches. She wasn't looking for a stomach ache, on top of which, she didn't really want to be at this seminar, Lyle had embarrassed her by laughing at something the speaker had said, and she really, desperately wanted a coffee.

There was coffee and tea, even juice, but the coffee was instant, and she wasn't in the mood for tea; it was black tea, the sort people drank with milk, she wasn't the biggest fan of black tea.

She turned to glance at her brother, and realised that she did have something to say to him, after all, that wasn't further whining over his having embarrassed her. She was well aware that he had about as much restraint as a two-year-old, and she endeavoured to do better than him, if she could.

As she did, she noticed Broots chatting to a woman, and decided that she would leave him to that, and join her brother instead. She was quite keen to ask after the source of the spreading bruise on his face, in any case. He hadn't had it yesterday, so maybe he'd got into a fight with someone.

"I guess Fulton and you are splitting up," she said, as she stopped beside him. "I've never found long-distance relationships to be very durable."

To his credit, he didn't even look at her, let alone offer any spiteful response. She'd been hoping he would, so she could throw one right back. She wondered where he'd got the bruise; perhaps it had dampened his mood some.

"Oh, that does convey trustworthiness, that does, let me assure you," she commented, of the bruise, hoping he would, at least, bite on that one. He still hadn't looked at her; she wasn't sure what he was looking at exactly.

"I think so," he replied blandly, then, turning to face her suddenly, he said: "This thing's done, we don't have to stick around any longer. Would you like to come to lunch in town?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, and sighed, finally. "I'm not paying."

"Did I ask you to?"

* * *

The bruise, in fact of matter, had been courtesy of Angelo; he'd been a little rough with him and he'd only reacted as was to be expected. It wasn't anything to make a big thing of; in fact, he was sure Merchant would see it as an encouragement, as a testament to her work; she was really helping Angelo gain a hold on finally reasserting himself as a person again; wow, and all that.

Parker wondered if her brother was down; he'd hardly commented on her at all today. She hadn't dressed up for the seminar, though she didn't think she looked too bad.

Sipping her coffee as they waited for their orders to arrive, she frowned at her brother, who'd begun to shiver. Outside, fair enough, it might have been blowy and cold, miserable with rain, but inside the restaurant, she thought it was actually quite nice. "Are you cold?" she asked.

"No."

She scowled and said, sourly, "You're shivering."

"I haven't eaten."

She nodded to his choice of drink, "Then why didn't you get a coffee, like I did?" He'd gotten a glass of water, rather than anything real.

"Coffee's not food," he replied.

She laughed, throwing his criticism back in his face.

He looked away, to the large windows, where rain had made the outside world all but a blur; occasionally made colourful by passing pedestrians, or a vehicle.

"You're not actually upset over this thing with Fulton, are you?" she asked, in distain and amusement.

He turned to glance at her slowly. "I'm upset because of what happened to her little boy. A child shouldn't have to go through that. I'm upset that people are so disgusting because they won't let her, or her children, move on from it. You can't tell me you're not in the least bit upset."

"You're right, I wouldn't tell you," she replied. She shook her head, "You're not upset, you're pissed off that your girlfriend's leaving you."

"Fuck off."

She nearly choked, and felt her face flame. "What did you say?!"

"Just don't talk to me," he said, and what angered her most was that he didn't even try to give it any affection, any strength, he just said it like he couldn't care less, like he couldn't give a shit about the person he was saying it to, so why care less how he said it.

She wanted to throw her coffee on him, or hit him, or shoot him. Or walk out. But, to him, it would be him winning, not her. So she stayed.

* * *

Apart from the uncomfortableness of it, she didn't mind lunch. She'd actually quite enjoyed the food, and, she thought, she'd have something to tell Debbie the next time they met, a restaurant to recommend they try together.

She hadn't taken her own car, but had gone with Lyle in his, for the drive into town to the restaurant. She'd have preferred taking her own, but she couldn't be bothered following him around just so that she'd find the place and not lose herself.

The rain was starting to really annoy her, and despite his having had something to eat at lunch, Lyle had put the heater on, and now, suddenly, she was too hot. She'd have switched it off, but she didn't like his mood, and she had a feeling that, with it off, the visibility through the windscreen would have gone and they'd be able to see nothing. Being able to see where you were actually going was always a bonus when driving, she thought.

She was jerked from her thoughts by the persistent click of the indicator, and she frowned as the car pulled over on the side of the road and came to a stop; the heater was left on. "Are you hoping the car will sink in the mud and we'll have to call to have someone pull us out?" she said sarcastically, thinking, as she did, that it wasn't a very original excuse for not returning to work.

"My head hurts," he replied.

She rolled her eyes at his expression; his attempt at convincing her that he'd come down with a headache. "I've got to be back at work in five minutes; I hope you're not planning on dragging this out."

To that, he said nothing.

She grinned; no, he wouldn't. So she'd made him angry at the restaurant by not playing to his game, and now he was taking it out on her by pretending to have a headache. Wasn't that very adult of him!

She crossed her arms, and fixed her gaze to the windscreen. She just knew she was going to be late back into work.

"Can you drive?"

"What?" she snapped, turning to glare at him swiftly.

He repeated, "Can you drive?"

"And get wet?" she shot, highly amused. He'd like that, wouldn't he! "Fuck off!"

"Do you want… to get back to… the Center… or not? I think… I'm going to- I need to get… out!" He pushed at the door, impatient to get out.

She looked away, to her own window. She wasn't buying into his attention seeking; no way in Hell. After a moment, she turned back to the middle of the car and leaned over to turn the heating down, and winced. Lyle had left the door open and the rain was coming in.

Shoving at her own door, she pushed it open and clambered angrily out into the rain.

She made a face when she saw that he was throwing up, and pulled the door shut after her with a loud bang. A moment later, she reached over to pull the other door shut, too.

She crossed her arms and waited for him to get back in the car. She could drive off and leave him on the side of the road; he'd left the keys; but that wasn't her style.

* * *

"Ethan. We need to talk."

At Harmony's words, the quiet of just the sound of the rain and his own breathing was shattered, and Ethan lifted his gaze to regard her. "About Em?"

"In part, yes, I think this concerns her, too," Harmony replied, as she took a seat on the sofa opposite the one he'd seated himself on.

Ethan watched her, waiting patiently for her to speak next.

"Ethan, I hope you will appreciate the difficulty I have suffered through in convincing myself to tell you this, and, for so very long, in keeping it from you, but what I have to tell you is not a joke; in fact, it is very, very serious."

"What do you have to tell me?" he asked. It was a question, nothing more; not a hurry along.

"I am your mother," she told him, and she became aware that her hands had started to shake; she was nervous.

"That is very serious," he said, just as before; neither bored, nor pressing.

Frustration stole over her. "I am Catherine Parker," she added, further.

"You're Catherine Parker," he repeated. "You're my mother. How does this concern Emily, exactly?"

"Lyle is my son."

"And a wonderful job he's done there, hasn't he!" Ethan snapped, his voice mocking her with its forced cheerfulness.

"I'm not defending him!" she responded hotly.

"Then what are you doing, _mom_?"

She felt as though she'd been physically slapped, or spat at. She forced the words through her teeth, "I want you to look after your sister!" And, with that out, she rose and stormed from the room, near to tears.

Ethan said not a thing; not even a word to call her back, to try to apologise.

She refrained from slamming the door as she closed it after her, and dissolved into tears, fleeing further into the apartment, away from the lounge room, and her, at that moment, unbearable son, Ethan.

* * *

Emily lay on her bed, in her room, just listening to the rain. Five minutes ago, she'd been outside to put up the washing on the line and she'd gotten soaking wet. She hadn't dried off with a towel when she'd come inside, she'd just walked to her room and lay down.

Her bed was getting wet, but she didn't care.

Farfalla was with Margaret, and now she had nothing left to do, no-one left to busy herself over, but herself. _Look at you_, she told herself, _you're not worth the effort. You are pathetic and needy; you have no control, and no morals. You'll put your whole family in danger because_ you're sad_! I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU, you stupid BITCH!_

It was no wonder her mother had taken Farfalla; she couldn't be trusted now, not even for a second.

She laughed and laughed.

_Aren't you mad, hmm? Look at you, acting it up! You're really mad, aren't you?_

She rolled over and slid off the bed, laughing still.

She started to cry, her tears mixing with the water sliding in beads from her hair.

She got to her feet, minutes later, and walked out of the room, grabbing her cell phone from the kitchen counter. She found Lyle's number in her Call Log and hit the button to 'call.'

"Why are you doing this to me?" she cried.

* * *

Parker eyed the ringing phone with, at first, nothing more than a regard for that it was doing something; then, she narrowed her eyes. It wasn't her phone; it was Lyle's. Finally, she reached out and snatched it up.

The number that was calling was listed as Unknown. She contemplated leaving it, then supposed, it if was Cox or Brown or some other similar pest, and her brother missed their call, it would be her fault for not answering.

Holding it up to her ear, she pressed the button to take the call.

* * *

The woman on the other end sounded snivelly. She couldn't tell whether it was Fulton, though she had a feeling that it wasn't. A new girlfriend, then?

"Who is this?" she asked; sensibly, she thought.

That seemed to throw the woman, because she replied back, "Who is this?"

"Mr. Lyle's assistant," she lied.

The woman cut the call.

Parker frowned. That had gone down well.

She put the phone back down where it had been before she'd picked it up. Oh well!

* * *

"Your girlfriend called," she told him, when he'd finally decided he'd had enough of the rain, and had done with throwing up.

"Don't answer," he said, as though he'd completely missed the point; his girlfriend _had_ called, she'd _answered_, and that was how she'd established it was his _girlfriend_.

"I already did."

"Thanks for nothing, sis."

She played dumb. She refused to buy into his drama routine one bit. "She hung up. I don't know what that means."

He grabbed the phone and switched it off, not really caring if it got water on it or not.

She widened her eyes as though to say, _Well, okay!_ "Are you done? Can we go now?"

He said nothing to that, but hit the indicator and pulled back onto the road.

She watched the portion of road she could see through the windscreen.


	7. Chapter 7

She'd just spent an hour searching for her slippers, and finally found them, when Ethan dropped by. She walked to the door, thinking that maybe it was a neighbour, the postie, a door-to-door salesperson, anyone but Ethan. Still, when she saw who it was, she wasn't surprised, not really. If Margaret and Harmony had returned, and they'd been to see Ethan, then it wasn't such a big stretch of the imagination to think that they'd brought Ethan along with them.

She let him pass, leading the way to the lounge in her sandals. She'd decided it was far too late in the day for slippers, and had left them under her bed in her bedroom. With any luck, she'd forget she'd put them there and go looking for them all over again.

When Ethan had taken a seat on the sofa, she went to make him a coffee. Coffee was her thing, and, apparently, Ethan didn't mind it, either. She was glad; it made her feel like a proper sibling to him, as lame and it-has-nothing-to-do-with-it-really as that was: they drank the same drinks.

Coming back in with the coffees – one for her; one for him – she caught Ethan looking at her as though he thought she should have been bawling her eyes out, or at least making a go of it, and passed him his drink with a smile. He put it down on the coffee table.

"It's okay," she said, "I put some cold water in it so you don't scold yourself." She always hated that, herself. She took a seat beside him. "And how are you?"

"Alive."

She nodded, but didn't know what to say next.

"Em," Ethan began.

"Yeah?"

He sighed, dropping his gaze from hers, then glancing at his coffee, on the table, before picking it up. "Em, don't do it again, okay?"

She frowned. "Don't do what again?" she asked, watching him hold his coffee but not sip it. "What have I done?"

"You know what," he replied.

"No I don't," she interjected, "because you haven't told me." Her fingers relaxed around the handle of her mug, and it slipped out of her hands, splashing coffee all over her legs and the sofa.

Ethan leapt up, onto his feet.

"That was smart," Emily commented to herself.

Ethan stared at her in shock as she brushed at her legs, splashing coffee onto the floor and the coffee table.

"Sorry," she apologised tiredly, "I forgot I was holding the damn thing."

"Are you alright?" he finally asked.

She nodded; she didn't mention that her legs hadn't appreciated the hot water. It hadn't been scolding, but it had been hot enough, she imagined they'd stay red for a while.

He winced and frowned at the sofa.

"What a mess!" Emily complained, and got to her feet, bending over to retrieve the mug which had rolled to the floor. "Come in to the kitchen," she said, walking that way herself.

"Em, Margaret told me."

Emily laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. When she turned back to get a look at him, she saw that Ethan was staring again.

She took her hand away from her mouth. "That was kind of her," she remarked casually.

"She's trying to protect you!" Ethan told her.

"I'm afraid she can try as hard as she likes, and it'll all be pointless. She might have thought about that before, before I'd met Harmony's mad son! We have Convergence, you know; I can't leave him now, I'll go mad!"

"That isn't true!"

"He's the Pretender, Ethan. I'm not! I'm nothing! I can't do anything! Not anything! I can't fight this!"

"Yes you can!"

"How?!"

"I don't know! Yet! But I promise, I'll find a way," Ethan reassured her.

She laughed. "_I_ know how! If you want to stop him, you've got to do it the right way – with a bullet in his head!"

"Emily, we can't!"

"I can take it!" she told him seriously. "I've taken worse; I can take this! Be done with it! End him!"

* * *

Snow's first words to her back from camp, when she drove to school to pick him up, the following day, were, "You're still here, then, are you?"

In that moment, she wanted to slap him – _hard_! It was obvious, though, that he'd only been joking, and, a moment later, he was hugging her, telling her how he'd really made a big fuss over nothing, camp hadn't been that bad, nothing as bad as he'd expected.

She hugged him back, and replied, "I'm glad you're okay," but she wasn't sure she really was.

On the way home, they stopped at McDonald's for soft serve, and Snow told her about squirrels. For twenty minutes, all he could talk about were squirrels.

She couldn't give a damn about some squirrel, but she kept this particular comment to herself. Apparently, squirrels were cool.

* * *

"So, what are you thinking?" he asked, as soon as they'd stepped into the house. "What's for dinner? Where's Far?"

"She's at grandma's," Emily told him, shutting the door after them. "And it's nowhere near time for dinner."

"I'm hungry, Em. You know us; kids, we're always hungry."

"Snow, it's 'mom'! How many times have we been through this?"

He huffed, "I _know_! But 'mom' is so lame. It's like, I mean, you call a dishwasher a dishwasher, but, like, it's so lame to call your mom a mom _all_ the time, I mean, all the time, coz you've got a name, too. You're a person, too, mom, you're not just here for me and Far."

She stared at him, searching for a comeback. "I _am_ your mom, Snow. I'm Farfalla's mom, too."

"Yeah, but, you're not _just_ our mom." He smiled. "You seriously need to pick up. I mean, at least go out! It's not good for you to stay inside all day; you need to interact with people your own age; get out there, laugh occasionally."

"Oh, I'll be laughing, all right," she told him. "Where did you read this nonsense?"

"It was on the radio. Jeez, mom! That's what I'm talking about. Chill, okay!"

She crossed her arms. "Chill? You're six, hon. Stick to the fucking squirrels!"

"We so need a swearing jar; you could make a killing on savings!"

She swung out her hand and smacked him across the back of the head with a considerable amount of force; it hadn't been a light smack across the head.

He was silent.

She supposed he was trying not to cry, but she couldn't bring herself to feel sorry for what she'd done.

Finally, he said, "Violent, mom," in a vaguely joking manner, and shrugged. "Can I watch telly?"

"Piss off," she growled.

He left, in the direction of the lounge, and, a moment later, she heard the sound of the television being switched on.

She walked to the kitchen to finish up last night's and the morning's dishes.

* * *

An hour of television, an hour and that was all he was allowed. Emily returned from the kitchen after an hour, and walked over to the television to switch it off. When she looked over, though, she saw that Snow had lain down and fallen asleep on the couch.

She walked out again.

She'd have to call Margaret and ask her to drop Farfalla off. Maybe she'd take the kids to Pizza Hut for tea, she wasn't sure yet; she'd have to think it over a bit more.

* * *

Parker stood in the undercover car parking, wondering what she'd make for dinner, and waiting for Sydney to arrive; it was almost knockoff time and she'd wanted to talk to him, to catch up, that sort of thing; they didn't talk all that much now that he'd been appointed Chairman, and, to be honest, she missed talking with him. Plus, Debbie had asked after how he was doing, and she, who'd been wondering the same thing herself, was keen to dig up something to report back to Debbie the next time they met for breakfast.

"Do you know what year it is next year?"

Startled, she spun about and glared at her brother.

He waited for her reply.

She made a face; how would she know what year it was next year? Of course, she knew what year it would be – it would be 2011 – but she had no idea what that meant to him, or what he was under the delusion it would mean to her.

"It'll be 15 years since Jarod's escape," he answered for her.

She frowned; she still wasn't getting it. "If there's a point you're trying to make here, why don't you just make it, already!" she snapped.

"Next year, Jarod's affiliation with the Center runs out."

She narrowed her eyes, thinking that one over. He was right, as usual, she thought, the Triumvirate had recently decreased the time an employee, patient or subject was protected by affiliation from 50 years to 15. Next year, Jarod would have all sorts of loonies after him; right now, his affiliation to their corporation meant that it was just them who were legally allowed to go after him – not that it would stop anyone who wasn't under the Triumvirate's protection, but all of their biggest rivals were – but next year, all that changed. Next year, he was fair game to whoever decided they had the time and money to waste looking for him, and, if they didn't get there first, they had no right to claim him once he was taken by the others. They'd claim him as theirs, the Triumvirate would grant it, and that would be the end of it; no more Jarod.

She scowled. "We'll just have to try harder this year, won't we?"

Lyle made no reply, but walked off past her.

She glared after him.

Sydney, approaching her from the elevator, frowned, curious to know what that was about.

She rearranged her expression into a more pleasant one, and asked him how his day had gone.

* * *

The four Healers glanced at one another; Aurelio, Giovanni, Svetlana and Tatiana, their thoughts remarkably similar: They'd been invited to a morgue visit, and their superior had started a yelling match with the M.E. because the body they'd been hoping to acquire just wasn't available to acquire.

Tatiana glanced at her friend, Svetlana. "_Do you think this is going to go on for long?_" she asked the other woman, in Russian.

"_Who knows, Tati, who knows_," Svetlana replied.

Aurelio shot them a suspicious look.

"Tati's after a coffee," Svetlana told him, "and I wouldn't say _nyet_ to one, either."

"Tati kaputsky!" Tatiana explained, with some amusement, putting on a tired act.

Giovanni sighed, "God, yes, I could use a coffee right now!"

Tatiana pointed at her friend, "Sveta is alien!" she laughed.

Svetlana grinned.

"I didn't see any coffee machines, did you?" Aurelio asked, annoyed. That was just Aurelio: frequently annoyed.

They returned their attentions to the argument, depressed.

Not even the thing with the aliens had gotten a response out of him; how morbid!

One day, they would get Aurelio to lighten up, Tatiana promised herself. It was a personal mission of hers; well, to be honest, it was her New Year's resolution. Sveta and she had been talking about New Year's resolutions, and Sveta had suggested they make some; it was the only thing she could think of offhand, and though she knew it was pretty silly, she'd decided that she wouldn't give up on it.

* * *

"What's the verdict, boss?" Giovanni asked, as Romulus stormed out of the M.E.'s office, his face dark.

"They didn't recover the body; Jarod took it."

"Yuck!" Tatiana piped up. They were going to be looking for a rotted corpse!

Svetlana smiled, tilting her head at her friend, whose expression was now a big Oops!

Yeah, she'd forgot about the angry thing; she couldn't hear the shouting anymore, so she'd forgotten.

"Think you… we able, yes, to salvage thing from it?" she asked, adjusting her voice to a more sensible tone.

"Let's bloody hope so!" Romulus growled, and stormed off ahead of them.

They followed, Tatiana shooting Svetlana a frown. She really didn't like playing around with dead bodies, but what could she do if it was her job?

Svetlana ignored her.

For a moment, she allowed herself to feel angry; if anyone had been looking for her sibling's body so that they could mess around with it, take things from it to use for creepy purposes, she'd have been mad, too.

But she didn't have siblings.

Sveta was the closest she had to family.

With a quiet sigh, she decided that she would have to spend some time listening to her tapes before going to bed; her English sucked, Sveta's was perfect! Giovanni was a Tony DiNozzo wannabe. She planted a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. Mouthing, _Boss_, she leant over and asked Svetlana quietly, "_What is Jarod's brother's name? I forgot._"

"Kyle," Svetlana replied.

* * *

At home, Lyle sat down in front of the heater and leant over to switch it on. It was too cold; he was too cold. It was ridiculous! He didn't even think it was that cold. He'd have to start eating properly, no matter if he felt like throwing it up again; that was the reason he was always cold.

He listened to the fan in the heater finally kick in, and wondered what his sister was doing. Tonight, he hadn't the first idea, though they lived not far at all from one another, in the same town. The realisation brought a vaguely disconcerting feeling, but mostly he was just tired.

It wasn't even that he could sleep; he'd been finding it harder than usual to sleep lately, it was just that he was tired.

He had a feeling he knew exactly what it was.

He pushed the thought away; he didn't feel like worrying about it tonight. He'd lived with it for so long, it was strange to think of it as dangerous, now. Still, he considered, the same could be said of anything in the human body, if it wasn't looked after properly. People died all the time because they just expected their body to be able to take whatever they did to it without complaint, but it wasn't like that, not in reality; oh, it would look after them, if they showed it the same courtesy. They expected that a pill would be able to make it all better again, all okay, when they'd been mistreating it for years, and then, when they decided they were feeling better, they'd fall back into the same old, harmful habits.

It was, he supposed, comparable to many of the day's popular environmental movements, with all of their 'projects' and 'efforts,' when the real problem, they weren't addressing the real problem at all, but just patching up little bits and pieces that would only fall ill of the same, ongoing mistreatment that the rest was continuing to sustain. That wasn't how it worked, he thought, you couldn't just say, Okay, look at the wonderful job we've done here whilst, over there, and over there, and all around us, the damage is still being done, and nobody is doing anything about _that_ because, really, this is much more glamorous, because people get this; it's relatively quick, and people can see results. But how would people know what they were seeing when they didn't even know how to look in the first place, he wondered; when they thought, isn't it wonderful, our schoolkids have planted x amount of trees along this area of land, and isn't it just great. Ahem, the trees are great, but don't look over there. That's, ah, that's not up to us to get all worked up over, we don't own that; what can we do?

He smiled. Yeah, that'd be right. We can't do anything because anything we want to do costs money, as though money even means anything compared to the health of our planet, of our home, compared to the Earth's ability to sustain life, let alone human life. But that was how people thought, in money and what they could gain for themselves; not just in the environment, but in everything.

Sometimes, he really grew sick of it.

And then he thought, _Yeah, go on, you're just like them! Why don't you shut up!_

Well, he thought, he was; he was just like the rest of them. Oh, how fantastic, such a wonderful feeling of comradeship, of unity. On everything else, there were constant arguments, constant conflicts, but, hey, when it came to exploitation, nobody was left with their hand raised, nobody said, _Ah, there's something I just don't get…_ Exploitation, everybody got that; it was a universal truth.

Only, occasionally, did the individual say, _Hang on…_ and then, there was always a larger group of people to say,_ No, _you_ hang on, will you; toe the line, like the rest of us, or rack off… We live here, too, and we _like_ it this way!_

He closed his eyes; he _had_ to think of something more cheerful. It was always global disaster with him lately, when he was down; it was starting to grate on his nerves.

He refrained from shaking his head and thought, _Well, you mightn't be talking to yourself aloud, but you're just as bad as any mad person!_

_Think of some way you're going to redeem yourself with Mel, why don't you! Do something useful!_

He decided, then, that he would buy her some chocolates. It was exactly what she would be expecting, and, if she didn't toss them in the bin, she'd probably give them to Debbie, or eat one or two of them.

_Oh, and there you go again; _she_ doesn't eat! What about you!_

He opened his eyes and switched the heater off. He was going to bed; he felt sick. He'd get up later and have something to eat, he promised, though he knew he probably wouldn't.

* * *

Merchant shut down her computer for the evening and returned the files laying open on her desk to their respective homes, her desk drawer, or her filing cabinet, before walking to the door and stepping outside into Commons, where her office was located in an old briefing room. She pulled the door shut with a small, quick snap.

Turning away from the door, she backed swiftly into it with her back, alarmed to see that Angelo had been waiting outside her office for her without speaking a word; she hadn't seen him and she'd nearly stepped right onto his feet.

"You surprised me," she said. She'd gotten into the habit of saying how she felt around him, if only that he'd have someone as an example of articulating their feelings. He was, after all, an Empath; he didn't need help sharing other people's feelings when he was in close proximity to them, providing they weren't blocking him by Empathic means of their own; he did, however, need help articulating what he was feeling, whether they were his own feelings, or not.

She let her breath out, and asked, "How do you feel?"

He made a face at her; he would do so whenever he though she was asking a ridiculous question, or a question that he didn't want to answer, so it obviously became stupid, because why ask a question when you wouldn't get an answer; why waste the effort?

He held out his hand, after a moment, and the annoyed look vanished.

She contemplated her choices, for a moment, and reached over to take his hand, stepping away from her office door. Okay, he wanted to show her something; it was late, but that was okay.

She let him lead her over to one of the sofas, and, when he took a seat, she sat down beside him. Out of all the sofas, this one was her favourite; it made her suspicious. What was he going to tell her that she needed the consolation of her favourite couch?

But he didn't have anything to tell her; instead, he leant over and kissed her.

* * *

Parker sat on her sofa, looking through the catalogues she'd amassed on her coffee table, flipping through pages of sales, and weekly specials, dismissing most everything, and only pausing to read something in more detail, before moving on to the next catalogue.

Junk mail didn't impress her, but she'd sit down to look through it before she threw it out; it gave her an excuse to sit down and have a coffee.

When she'd looked through all of the catalogues and fliers, she gathered them up in her hands, and stood. She dumped them in her recycling bin outside, in no doubt that the most of the recycling hype was, in itself, a lie, and hurried back inside to her warm house and hopefully still sufficiently warm coffee.


	8. Chapter 8

They were going to make a cake; it was in the oven, doing something. She supposed it was his being mad thing again. Realistically, if she were to really look at herself, would she decide she was any better, though? She had a feeling she wouldn't like the answer to that.

She was sitting on the kitchen floor, in front of the oven, in his apartment, watching the cake; ridiculously wearing a shiny green, maroon and red Asian-styled dress decorated with motifs of trees and mountains.

She'd thought he would like it; that's why she'd chosen it, because she'd thought it would be something he would like. She wasn't sure what he thought of it, he'd started crying and hadn't stopped until he'd suggested he show her how to make a sponge cake; the whole while, she'd stood there, angry, thinking, _Mad, just mad._

She hadn't changed her assessment; he was still mad; she was waiting to see how the cake turned out.

She'd taken off her high heels, and she spent a moment staring at her toenails, painted black; she supposed red would have been a better choice. She'd been thinking maybe highlighter green, then changed her mind; highlighter green would have been _awful_ with her dress!

A baroque music CD played from the lounge room.

She'd done a fantastic job of telling him that this would be the last time that he would see her, she thought; she'd meant to say, _Look, if a kid's what you want, I'll give you that, but after it's born, I don't even ever want to see it again; I don't want to hold it, I don't want to name it, I don't want to _know_ its name: it'll be yours, don't tell it about me; make something up if it ever comes up; lie, it's what you do wonderfully._ All of which she had said; he just hadn't said anything back.

They were waiting for the cake.

She looked across at him, sitting next to her. "Do you have jam?"

He nodded. Taking her hand, he said, "Sorry, ah… Bobby was sad… I think…"

"You're Bobby," she pointed out.

"No, we're… ah, we're different… personalities…" he explained, not looking at her.

"That's news to me," she offered. "So… why was he sad?"

"Wouldn't know; don't know. I…" He frowned, "I don't really care." He gave her her hand back; just didn't feel like holding her hand anymore.

"What's he like then? Your Bobby?"

"Crappy," he replied.

"That isn't very nice," she said.

"He killed his best friend."

"I thought you did that…"

He looked at her suddenly; properly, this time. "Shite, no!"

She smiled, "Is this cake going to take much longer?"

"Don't know."

"You smart cookie!" she joked.

He said nothing; he was still looking at her.

"Do you want to kill me?" she asked; she was full of stupid questions, she amazed herself with her stupidity.

"Oh." He smiled suddenly, "Oh, yes!"

"Are you kidding?" she asked.

He hadn't stopped smiling. "Do you want me to be kidding?"

"I want you to be honest," she replied without much feeling; it was just that, that was just what she wanted, no big deal: honesty.

"Nah, nah you don't."

"Oh. That's right, so silly; I forgot, you – you're a _mind reader_!" She laughed. "Stupid Emily!"

He looked away, already dismissing her. "What sort of jam do you like?"

"Read my mind!" she snapped sarcastically.

"Rather not," he replied, merely.

"I hate you."

"Surprising as it seems, you've told me often enough that I don't doubt that."

"I hate you."

He got up, and she stood up, too. She followed him to the fridge.

"What if I said I wanted to kill you?"

He turned about quickly, taking out his gun, and grabbed her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. "Then go ahead! Go right ahead!"

She stepped back from him, letting the gun drop to the kitchen floor.

"No. No. If you want to kill me, do it now. I'm not going to give you another chance."

She didn't look at the floor, or the gun, she just stared at him, forcing herself not to flinch.

The oven timer chimed; her eyes went to the gun. "I hate guns!" she hissed. "Don't you ever frighten me like that again!"

She turned around to take the cake out of the oven.

* * *

"How can you hate guns?" he asked, when he'd sat down beside her on the sofa in the lounge.

She ignored him, listening to the CD. She glared at the CD player. "I hate what people do with guns!" she growled.

He rested his head on her shoulder; she wanted to smack him across the face.

"Fuck you!" she hissed.

"Cheer up, Lin. It's not the end of the world."

She felt sick. "Don't call me that!" she spat.

"Call you what, buttercup? God, change the CD already!"

She didn't move, not at all. Her favourite song was _Build Me Up Buttercup_.

He took his head off her shoulder and looked at her seriously, kind of frowning, she supposed.

She didn't look, though.

"What's wrong, Lin?"

She glared harder at the CD player.

He took her chin and turned it so that she was looking at him. "What's wrong?"

"My name is Emily, you fuck! I'm not your stupid, fucking dead wife!"

He put his arms around her and hugged her suddenly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Sh-she's dead; of course she's dead."

Emily took deep breaths, and refrained from shoving him off her. The cake was probably cooled enough now that they could cut it and put the jam and cream on it; she didn't feel like cake, but she supposed, as she'd helped make it, she should probably have at least one piece. "She's dead because you fucking killed her," she said. "Get off me – I need to deal with the cake!"

"I'm sorry."

"You tell her that! Go on!"

* * *

She slammed the fridge door shut with unnecessary force, having put the jam away, and dropped the empty cream container in the bin: the cake was done; she felt sick, sick, sick; her wrist hurt from whipping the cream earlier. She frowned at some flour on her dress; _damn it!_

She put the electric kettle on to boil, and walked back to the fridge. She wondered if he still had the fingers in his freezer, but she really didn't think seeing them would improve her appetite.

"Get your fucking ass in here!" she yelled. "As much as you might think I do, I don't have all fucking day!"

She left the fridge alone, and walked back to the table to take a seat to wait for the kettle to boil.

"I wanted to show you… it's something Sydney wrote… ah, Dr. Green… I wanted to show you it, but I seem to have misplaced it…"

"I don't know where it is," Emily told him, annoyed.

He turned away from her, back toward the kitchen door and the lounge room. "Saskia! Saskia, darlin'!"

She got up from the chair and walked over to him, grabbing his arm. "Your daughter isn't here!" she snapped.

"She's-"

"She's not here!"

"I wanted to show you-"

She made a face.

"Saskia-"

"Isn't here!"

He shook his head. "Saskia, can you come out! Daddy needs your help finding something, darl! Oh, come on! I had to work. You know you're supposed to get to bed by a reasonable hour. Saskia? Darl, where are you?"

"She's not here!" Emily told him loudly. "She's grown up, or dead, or-!"

He turned around and walked off on her, out of the kitchen. She followed him out, shaking her head.

"Whatever," she intoned.

She stopped outside the bedroom door, not interested in looking under the bed for his nonexistent daughter. She supposed, she hadn't seen the penguin in the lounge room, maybe he was in the bedroom; Lyle would probably decide that if his daughter's penguin was there, that she wouldn't be far away, either. He'd forgotten to take his pills, or something.

She turned around at the sound of a loud thud, uncrossing her arms.

* * *

"Nice. Very nice. You fainted."

"Sorry. That was… unnecessary. I've been forgetting things lately. I suppose it happens as you get older. And, ah, you are?"

Emily looked very unimpressed.

He smiled. "You totally bought it!"

"Didn't."

He laughed, "You so did!"

"You're _so_ a jerk!" she told him.

"Lighten up, Russell. Stress is bad for your health, I hear."

"You're bad for my health," she muttered.

* * *

"You're not even that old!" she told him, suddenly, setting her mug of coffee down on the kitchen table.

He laughed, "Oh, I'm old enough, let me tell you!"

She made a face, picking at a bit of her cake. "Shut up!" She sighed heavily. "Why are we always arguing?"

"Why are we?"

She stuck her tongue out at him; that wasn't a serious answer.

"If we weren't arguing, what else would we have to say to one another? You hate me, I hate you, right. What's there to talk about? The weather? Oh, so fun, fun, fun! I bet we'd just argue about that, too!"

She pushed her plate of cake away from her, done with it, and got to her feet: "You're right! So, 'yes' or 'no'?"

"'Yes' or 'no' what?"

She frowned, irritated. "Did you hear anything I said earlier?! You, you little lunatic-!" She shook her head. "I told you I'd do this one thing for you, and that's it! You stay away from my family; you stay away from me-!"

"Stay away from your family?" he interrupted. "I'm afraid I can't do that; it's my _job_ to find your _family_ – at least, your brother!"

"NO!" she screamed. "You leave him alone!"

"I can't make that promise, and I don't make promises I can't keep."

"Fuck you!" she shrieked. "FUCK YOU!"

"Calm down," he told her, disconcerted. "We can't leave Jarod out there for much longer, not now. What you don't seem to understand is that the rules have changed; next year, it's not just going to be us looking for Jarod, it's going to be whoever the Hell wants to. And there'll be nothing we can do, unless we bring Jarod back in and give the Triumvirate some indication that he's still with us. I can hardly see him signing up with T-Corp for a job tomorrow, or any of our other rivals, for that matter. He's not going to be protected by affiliation, Emily, do you understand what I'm saying. It used to last 50 years, but they've reduced it to 15 years, and that means a whole world of trouble for all of us. And, as Mira and Gemini are the only two others in your family who are affiliated, they're going to be coming after you, your mother, your kids, and who ever else they please, as well as Jarod."

He frowned; really frowned. "Emily, I know you said you wanted rid of me…"

"ASAP!" she growled.

"Now, don't get mad… at least, not all at once, give it some thought, first, but I thought, maybe… We could get married?"

She dropped the sarcastic smile. "You're fucking mad!"

"Yep."

"You're… fucking mad!"

"Mmm, no, I still am, yeah, that hasn't changed… give it some time, 'ey…"

He was winding her up, he'd started to smile; she wanted to fucking punch him.

"You love your kids, don't you? Come on, I know you do! You want to be a good mom!"

She wished, at that moment, that she'd shot him with the gun he'd offered her; just fucking shot him dead.

"Do the right thing."

"Fuck-fucking shut up!" she spat. She couldn't breathe!

"Don't, don't do that," he told her, tilting his head to the side a bit. "I'm not asking anything impossible of you, here. I know we're not each other's best friends; I full well understand that, Emily. I don't expect that we will be. Think about your family; do you think your mom or dad, Jarod, even, do you think they'd be too pleased if something happened to your kids? Somehow, I don't think they would. It's not a hard decision; it's easy. Just say, 'Yes.'"

She sat down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs and started to cry.

"No, no, no. I'm not… hurting you. I'm not hurting you, Emily." He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder but decided better of it; it'd only make things worse. "You don't have to cry."

"Leave me alone!" she sobbed.

"Alright," he conceded. "Alright, Emily, I'll leave you alone."


	9. Chapter 9

She finished her coffee, and poured herself another cup. When she'd finished half of that, she left the mug with the rest of it at the table and left the kitchen to find Lyle. "They won't allow it," she told him simply, when she'd found him.

He was sitting on his bed, reading a book. It wasn't in English, and she didn't know what it was about.

She didn't come into the room; she stood in the doorway.

He closed the book and put it down on the mattress. "I'd like to see them try and stop me; you're not affiliated with any of our rivals, you don't work for the Triumvirate, there's no active retrieval order out on you, or your kids; they can't do a thing to stand in our way, Miss Russell."

She told herself she wouldn't cry; once had been enough. "You tried to kill me!"

"Oh, that's all in the past!"

She couldn't gather the energy to sound angry, she just wanted to sit down, or lie down, but she had to stand up. "You were supposed to kill me. I was at the Center. I have to be affiliated."

"Not if they've terminated your affiliation, which they have. They didn't think they'd ever be seeing you again, you see. Why? Well, it's easier to terminate your affiliation and allow anyone out there to look for you, than, say, for instance, if they wanted to hire someone from another company to look for you if you were still affiliated. The paperwork isn't worth it. You'd need to go through the Triumvirate, and that'd mean a Triumvirate lawyer, and, I mean, they don't come for free. You know what's next, don't you? They've been talking about charging fees for affiliation; now, if it were ever to come through, the individual would more than likely have to pay their own fees, but a subject, a subject would have to be paid for by the company. And the company's all about the money; it's just about the money, honey. Let's hope that isn't any time soon, shan't we."

She gave up her post in the doorway, saying nothing, and walked over. She sat down beside him on the bed. "And what'll happen to my kids?"

"James was Reagan's father, officially. He allowed him to be put onto a program in as much the same capacity as any of our 'subjects.' If my sister had been appointed his legal guardian, after our father died, which she had not been, then she'd have seen to it that he was taken off the program. But, as I said, that didn't happen; Reagan was signed over to the company's care if anything was to happen to our father, which it did, and that was the end of it. I think the time period for an appeal to be allowable is ten years. Short of kidnapping him, there was nothing she could have done."

"What if they decided they'll just kidnap my kids?"

"As long as one of their parents is working for the Center, that shouldn't be a problem; they shouldn't be allowed to do that."

"Farfalla isn't your daughter," Emily reminded him.

"And they don't know that… your son is my child, also. It makes no difference if they're my biological children or not if I adopt them; they'll be my children, then, end of story."

"And what if you die?"

He smiled, "You'd want to marry Dr. Brown ASAP!"

Emily said nothing to that. Finally, she said, "I won't let you hit my kids; I won't let you hit me."

"That's understandable," he agreed.

She looked at him. "I hate you."

He touched her face. "I know; it's getting old." He smiled. "Hey, give me a hug."

She didn't move; he hugged her anyway.

"We're family," he told her. "Families look out for one another; nothing we might have done differently in the past could have changed that; it was already decided, a long time before we were born. Our mother's were best friends, didn't you know? A real friend is like family to you."

"Will you help me remember what happened to me?" she asked quietly. She knew she couldn't say 'no,' not anymore; she'd lost, he'd won. It was a shitty thing to ask, at a time like this, but she didn't know, maybe it would change things; maybe it really would.

"You know that isn't something I can do," he said. "You know that isn't up to me."

"All I'm asking is that you help!"

"Well, we'll see."

* * *

Harmony stalked to the window. "What is she playing at? I don't know why she does this to us?"

Margaret said nothing; she didn't have the first clue, either, but she had a feeling getting worked up over it wasn't the right move.

Seated on the sofa, Jarod finally allowed himself to sigh. "I think they have Convergence," he said.

Ethan stared at him as though he thought he'd gone mad.

Harmony laughed shortly, "I don't believe that!"

"You don't believe in Convergence?" Jarod asked, unsure.

"I don't believe she has Convergence with _him_!"

Jarod frowned, having some difficulty interpreting Harmony's angered tone, and glanced at Ethan.

"I thought you didn't believe in Convergence!" Ethan snapped sarcastically.

Jarod sighed heavily. "Does it matter if I believe in it, or not? Clearly, Lyle does. He was the one you said told you about it, wasn't he? Perhaps it's only that she believes it, too."

"I believe in Convergence," Mo put in.

"We're not… we're not arguing the plausibility of Convergence," Margaret intervened. "I'm not in the mood for that!"

Annoyed, Jarod said, "Harmony, you don't even know him."

"I know enough!" she replied in disgust.

Jarod shook his head, "Harmony, no you don't. You don't know anything."

"WHAT THE FUCK WOULD YOU KNOW, JAROD?" she screamed suddenly. "HE'S NOT YOUR SON!"

He shook his head again, "It isn't your fault, Harmony. However he's turned out, that's not down to you. You've got no reason to be so upset; you're just being hypocrit-"

"Jarod!" Margaret admonished.

"No, no, no!" Jarod protested loudly. "She just _hates_ him! I don't believe that you can rightly hate a person whom you've never met! I don't care what you say as to the case being otherwise – I don't buy it!"

Harmony laughed.

Jarod shook his head and walked out of the room; he didn't have to put up with that!

* * *

"You don't hate Lyle?" Ethan asked incredulously, catching up to him in backyard. "Or Raines?"

"No, I don't. For a start, Ethan, Raines is dead; give it a rest. He can't defend himself anymore; you should stop hating him. And, secondly, how can you believe that Lyle is the way he is because, I don't know, it's fun? How can you believe that? He's a very, very sick person, Ethan! That kind of sickness, it isn't fun! It's nowhere near fun!"

"Is this because of Kyle?"

Jarod stopped and spun around to face Ethan. "Don't you bring Kyle into this! What did I just say, Ethan! Kyle's dead! Leave it well alone!"

"But you're not."

"I am trying… to let him go," Jarod ground, fighting hard not to raise his voice. "He deserves that… Let me do the right thing… Don't! Just, just don't! Don't!"

"Not talking about it isn't helping anyone, least of all yourself," Ethan replied.

"No! Let me just sort it out myself first!"

"And what if that never happens, hmm?"

"Please, just let me try."

Ethan shook his head, "Suit yourself. I'm not stopping you." He turned and walked back into the house, leaving Jarod alone in the garden.

* * *

Mo stood up and walked over to Harmony, who stood glaring out of the window, her arms crossed and her posture clearly stating that she didn't want to be disturbed; she just wanted to be left alone.

"It's okay, Harm," he told her. "I don't have kids, so I wouldn't know what that's like, but, I mean, I'm a person, too, just like all other people, and I get that you're angry at Lyle; nobody's saying that you're not entitled to be angry, Jarod, he just… he just doesn't believe that it's fair to hate someone you've never met. I know that you're angry at Lyle, but anger and hate aren't the same thing, we know that. I mean, I guess Jarod's getting worked up about that he thinks you hate Lyle; he doesn't… he's not really happy with that, with the concept of hate. I'm not so over the moon for it, either, but I can't deny that it happens, either, that it's something that people feel. And I don't think it's always as they think, Oh, I hate… well, you know, so and so… so it's all fun and games. I don't believe that; sometimes it's the worst thing in the world to hate someone; it just _hurts_! I kinda get that, I think."

"I'm not hurt," Harmony told him coldly, without removing her gaze from the window. "I hate Lyle; but I'm no more hurt for it. I don't believe that I'd feel better if I didn't hate him. It's my right, and my duty, as one of this species, to hate him. He's a traitor, so I hate him; plain and simple. If you don't, then that's your error in judgement; that's nothing to do with me. The way I see it, I'm in the right. I can't change your mind for you!"

Mo frowned, and nodded. "Okay," he said levelly. He left her at the window, and walked over to Margaret, and, without a word, hugged her. He wanted to ask, _Did you know she was like this?_ but he said nothing of the sort; he said nothing at all. He was wondering if he, too, was a traitor in Harmony's eyes; he was wondering what Margaret thought.


	10. Chapter 10

**A really short chapter.**

* * *

"It would have been nice to hear of this beforehand," Charles admitted to his son, to which Jarod made no reply; well, he'd heard about it now.

Jarod frowned, and made a face.

"You want to know if I believe in Convergence, right?" Charles said. "Well, I'll tell you I've heard of it; I think I do believe it's possible. Your mother doesn't have the anomaly, Jarod, you must remember that; you and I, we do."

"She said Harmony is Catherine, though I don't know how she could be."

"I know, son."

"You think she is, too?"

"I know she is; she just can't remember."

"She hates her own son."

"Mmm-hmm."

"Don't you think that's wrong?"

"It's her choice, isn't it?"

"Do you hate him?"

"I think I do," Charles replied.

"Why?"

"Well, he's not the sort of person you can just… the things he's done, you can't just let that sort of thing go."

"Why?"

"Do you think he's ever going to change? Is that what you're hoping? For your friend, for Miss Parker? Jarod, she understands that that's never going to happen; she's made her peace with that, I think it's time you let go. He's her brother, not yours, and as much as you love her, and I know you do, you can't hold onto this; Kyle's gone, he's dead. You can't make that boy right; we'd all be better off, come to it, if he was dead, too. You can't expect him to get better; it's too much, Jarod."

Jarod said nothing. He did expect… _something_!

"I know you think our Em can help him, Jarod, but she can't; you're only going to get her hurt; you're only going to get all of us hurt."

"You don't know him, dad," Jarod finally said. "You don't know how much it hurt him when Kyle did what he did."

Charles laughed, amused. "Hurt him? Jarod, it didn't hurt him in the least when Kyle died. I'm sure he was even pleased."

Jarod shook his head; he wasn't going to believe that. "Margaret says he's probably an Empath."

"And that makes it all okay, does it? That means he must have been upset when Kyle died? Why? Why are Empaths any different to the rest of us? He's not Angelo, Jarod; he's not our friend."

"He was; he was upset."

"Jarod, he wasn't upset. If anything, he is an Empath, and you were the one who was upset."

"You think I couldn't tell – he's Mel's brother!"

"No, Jarod, I don't think you could tell. And I think you should know by now that he's nothing like his sister."


	11. Chapter 11

**And it gets weirder!**

* * *

Jarod was the only one waiting for her when she returned; Margaret, Charles, Harmony, Ethan, Mo and the kids had gone out for the evening; she put the cake down on the kitchen table and turned a serious glance on her older brother, passing him a piece of folded yellow paper. "This is for you, apparently," she told him.

A frown came onto his face, but he took the piece of paper and wandered away a little way to read it; when he'd read it, his frown had not dissipated.

"Need I ask what it's about?"

"Affiliation," Jarod said, on a quiet note, and sighed.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "We made a cake."

Jarod made a face, "Why?"

"He has a nice oven; I don't know why."

"This isn't good, Em," Jarod told her, in honesty, a little drab.

"He told me about it; I gathered. You're not going to… do anything stupid, are you?"

"I'm not a friend of T-Corp; I never was."

"And you're not a friend of the Center, either," Emily pointed out.

"More so than I am of T-Corp, as bad as that sounds."

Emily tossed her chin; it did sound bad!

"They're not, ah… They're not a great collector of Pretenders, but I don't want to give them that chance. Lyle's, ah… His partner, so I hear, was T-Corp. It never ends well, with that lot."

"Partner?" Emily asked, looking at the cake for a moment.

"Convergence partner," Jarod replied. "You see, Sydney just told me this, some days ago… so, not to worry, it's not you. And, before you go getting all frowny on me, she's dead."

"What was her name?" Emily asked, subdued.

"Lynn. But, ah, she wasn't… She wasn't his wife, that'd be May Lin you're thinking of. I don't even think she was Asian, if their daughter's name is anything to go on." He sighed. "Her name's Saskia, Lyle's daughter's name. Did you-?"

Emily nodded.

"He told you about her?"

She nodded again.

"Hmm…"

"Jarod?"

"Yes, Emily?"

"Do you know if he has any kind of heart problem?"

"I shouldn't think so," Jarod responded. "Why? Do you have reason to believe otherwise?"

Emily shook her head; _no_; but she was thinking about the scar he had.

"It was, ah, it was just when he was born, although… I don't know… He wasn't breathing, but, I assume he still had a, a heartbeat…"

"Cool."

"Emily."

She frowned.

"You don't have Convergence. You can't have. A person only ever has one Convergence partner."

"And how do you know Lynn was it? What makes you so sure it was her?"

"Sydney's sure, the Center's sure, and, if I don't trust the Center, I surely trust Sydney. On this, I trust him. You know, for the longest time, nothing, with him; he never believed in Convergence, and now, suddenly, out of the blue, he does. So I reckon, hey, go with it."

"Is this because Sydney has…"

"The Voices," Jarod filled in.

Emily tossed her head again, and walked over to the cutlery drawer, looking for a knife; she was hungry. "Where are the kids?"

"With Mom and Dad."

"I guess everyone's kinda mad at me."

"It would seem that way," Jarod agreed.

She sighed. "I'm an idiot!"

"No, Em, you're not," Jarod told her.

She snorted. "Yeah, I am."

He frowned. "Look. I told Dad. I'm sorry if that's not what you wanted, but, tough!"

She shook her head. "If it wasn't you, it would have been Mom. Besides, you were right. It doesn't really matter what I might have wanted, is it?"

Jarod reached over for her hand, covering it with his. "Em… Mom thinks he's an Empath."

She laughed. "That doesn't fit, in my mind."

"Empaths are complicated, Em; dangerously complicated. And they can be dangerous; just because they're Empaths doesn't mean they have any more compunction than anyone else hurting other people. And I know what that sounds like, what it comes out like, but it's true." He sighed heavily. "Em, do you believe in angels?"

She shook her head, grinning. _No_; what a strange question.

"Kyle did."

She frowned. "What?"

"He believed in angels; he said he'd met one, a long time ago, when he was just a boy. He met an angel. He really believed in it, and… I don't mean in a religious sense, just… He just believed in angels."

"I may be missing the point, but-"

Jarod shook his head; she wasn't. "He trusted the angel; he trusted it completely. I think… it must have endeared itself to him somehow. I don't, I don't think it – he or she – really was an angel; I think it's more likely they were a Healer."

"A what?" Emily asked.

"A Healer. It's… an expression of the anomaly. T-Corp, they're into the Healer scene like nothing you've ever seen before – actually, they _own_ the scene." He smiled. "Healers and Reapers, that's T-Corp in a nutshell."

"Reapers?"

"Hard to explain; they're telekinetic, ah… they're supposed to be able to Heal themselves, they're related to Healers, though they can't heal other people, and… the expressions don't mix: it's known as the Paradox. They're the only two expressions that are physically impossible to mix, according to T-Corp scripture."

"You can have more than one 'expression'?" Emily asked.

Jarod nodded sharply. "Yeah… Miss Parker, for example: a Pretender with the Inner Sense."

"Does Lyle have the Inner Sense?"

Jarod gave his head a shake. "He doesn't display the typical characteristics, and, honestly, I don't think he does; Sydney has the Inner Sense, and I believe he'd know. If Lyle is a Perceptive, it may just be his Perception, or he may very well be an Empath of indeterminable Class."

"Perception?"

"We all have Perception," Jarod explained. "Very basically, it's a variation on up-is-up/down-is-down. In Pretenders, though, it's typically dormant or, if it exists in an active form, it's in a very weak form. A Pretender's Perception might be heightened if they've spent considerable time in the company of an Empath or Inner Sense Possessor, so, perhaps that's why Lyle's Perception is better than mine, if he's not an Empath; Miss Parker is an ISP.

"Alex was an exception to that rule, he seemed to have been blessed with… it all. A top level Pretender; tested at the top of the scales on his first test when he was four; amazingly talented; but badly, badly managed. I think we all knew he'd done something wrong in his home branch, that's the only explanation for why he was assigned to Blue Cove; ever since losing Cooper they've been on a badly losing downward spiral; no amount of showmanship could ever bring them back up; they've been dying for years and years."

"How old was he when he was assigned to… Blue Cove?" Emily asked.

"Four."

"So what did he do wrong?"

"Who can say?"

Emily shrugged, busying herself with cut Jarod a piece of cake. "So who's Cooper?"

"Just… the discoverer of the anomaly."

"Are you kidding?" she asked.

Jarod grinned. "I kid you not, kid! Once, Blue Cove was luminous; it shone with the brilliance of angels. They had it all! Cooper, Catherine Parker, Jacob Green. And then they lost it all. Blue Cove was… something. Oh, they were a thing to behold! They were magnificent!" His smile lessened.

"I think it really hurt Raines, Blue Cove's slow, sliding decline. He really thought that that'd be the end of it; he'd deal with Catherine, and Blue Cove would snap back to itself, to glamour and… all that! But, of course, it never did. And neither of Catherine's kids proved to be… quite what their mother had been. In the old days, to be the child of Catherine Parker had been… well, it had been your ticket! The people either hated you or loved you. I suppose it's all so vague in Miss Parker's memory, but I can tell you, it's opened more doors for her than she can ever imagine. There are a lot of people who are… should I say, reluctant to believe that Lyle is her twin, that he's Catherine's son. He's just not… He hasn't _got_ it."

"So people knew about Catherine's Voices?"

Jarod nodded once. "She was the Possessor in which Cooper first isolated the anomaly. She was… glamour."

"And that's glamorous, in the world of the Center?" Emily asked, perturbed.

Jarod nodded again.

"These people are really something!"

"Oh yes they are!"

"Do you think he's her twin?"

"I think he is, sure."

"Does Sydney?"

"I don't know what Sydney thinks."

Emily walked to the draining board and picked up two plates, taking them back to the table, and put a piece of cake on a plate for Jarod, passing it to him before going back for the forks.

"So what's happening with the two of you?" he asked, taking the fork she passed him.

"He wants us to get married," Emily said, before she could shut herself up, "he thinks that'll be okay, with the company."

"Perhaps," Jarod agreed.

Emily stared at him seriously; not ever, she wagered.

"They owe him, Em," Jarod told her. "He's done _so much_ for them. Why do you think they've let it pass with all of those girls, with Kyle? Without him, Blue Cove would have fallen to pieces. He's always kept them on people's radars. He's a Level Seven operative; officially, L5, former trainer, Primary; a T-Corp expert, a Tower-level tech, translator, linguist… bit of bad luck with tracking me down, but… generally, he's very good. He's so much more than you think, Em."

"How did he keep Blue Cove on people's radars if he's from Nebraska?" she asked; to her, that didn't make sense.

"Because Raines recruited him to work for Blue Cove, and he's always come back to them, he's always stuck up for them. Most of them have no idea, but he's never given up on them; not for a second. If they're not up for it in one department, he's always tried to promote another department, tried to keep them interested. Whilst Miss Parker's always tried to distance herself, he couldn't have been more than happy to say, yes, he was from Blue Cove; hey, they're not so bad; we're still good for something."

"Why?"

Jarod frowned, "They're the family he never had; he's not ready to let go, not just yet."

"And what have they done for him?" she asked, deliberately playing up the ignorance in her tone.

"They must have been better to him than his father, that's all I can say!"

"Because they let him get away with, basically, whatever he wants," Emily said, disgusted.

"But he has a lot of responsibility, for all of those… allowances," Jarod told her. "The company owns him; they certainly never owned me, or even Kyle, like they own him, and, well, I think you know we had next to no rights. But, mentally, he's nowhere near as free as Kyle or I were; they may have been awful, _awful_ to us; they may have treated us like second class citizens, second class humans, but they're by no means kinder to him." He smiled, ironically.

"Look, Em, he didn't guess, he never guessed, that Lynn was T-Corp; they told him that, and, well, nowadays, T-Corp has seized on that, but we still don't know if she ever really was. The thing is, they gave him a choice: we can deal with her, or you can. But if we do, you'll be letting us down; if we have to do it, there's nothing in it for you – you won't be allowed to keep her, she'll be dead, and you'll forever be in our bad graces. If you love her, and she loves you, if either of you love your daughter; she'll understand, she'll accept this. She's a T-Corp operative, she's a smart girl, she certainly knew what she was signing up for when she got into this. He didn't really have a choice; they could have destroyed it all with a snap of their fingers, everything he'd ever worked for; they could have," he clicked his fingers, "taken all of that away from him; he'd have been left with nothing at all, and Blue Cove wouldn't have been far behind.

"He got into all of this T-Corp stuff to redeem himself with them, and, as much as he insists on his dislike of them, I think… it was for her, too. So that they would understand that T-Corp isn't just a company of savages and charlatans, that they're people, too, people just like the people the Center so highly prizes, in whatever capacity they do so; just people. I see that, Em; not many people might, but I do. You mightn't be aware of this, but I've known him for far longer than you think; through Sydney, I've known about him from the beginning. Sydney, of course, knew about him through Raines; it was all so wonderful, anything from the outside, anything at all we could get our hands on. Sometimes, when he came back home, when he was assigned to Sweeper duty with me, he'd tell me about things; nothing all so specific, but just things.

"He's had a lot of time to practise endearing himself to people, a lot of time, Em, and I know I go a little off the deep end with Ethan sometimes, but I can see where he's coming from. If you don't know what he's like, it's so easy to think the world of him: he has that. You can't help yourself." He smiled. "I guess it's magic, Em."

She rolled her eyes. "Tell me the counter-curse?"

He laughed.

For a while, he said nothing. Finally, though, he said, "In his own way, he is every bit the son Catherine can have hoped for. He has been that; he's been… stellar, considering his beginning. He plays it up for Miss Parker, but he is in no way incapable; perhaps it's the thing with Broots, or me; she finds smart people infuriating, or perhaps it's not that, at all. For all of his capabilities, we must never forget how sick he is, and, you know what, Em – no-one will have ever tried to help him; never in a million years; without all of that, he wouldn't be half of what he is, he'd be of no use to them. They took what they could, and ran with it – and, to Hell with him! He's always just been a toy, but a sad, very confused toy. He thinks they care, see, but they only care about one thing – and that's the same thing they cared about with Kyle and I."

"That you work," Emily said.

Jarod nodded, "That we work."

"Won't he be angry when he finds out?" she asked.

"He'd never buy it, Em. He couldn't. It would be too much. He's clever, that's true, but he's… he's confused, he's so confused… about so much. He doesn't know how to be anything else but what they've always asked of him; they're not better than his father, come to it, but he's never been able to see it that way. He was just a child, Emily; all of those years ago. Like all of us."

"You actually feel _sorry_ for him?" Emily said.

"It hurts me, what they've done to him, yes; just as it hurts me to see what they've done to Miss Parker, or Angelo, or any of us," Jarod told her.

Emily shook her head. "For what it's worth, I don't think it's Lyle who's confused; I think that's you."

Jarod smiled. "Well, yes, it certainly might appear like that, mightn't it?" He shook his head, "But enough of that; we can't live in the past, can we? Dad's right, Miss Parker has accepted that he'll never be the brother she may or may not have been hoping for, he'll never be the person she might have wanted him to be; it's time for me to accept that, too." He tossed his head. "What about you, Em?"

"I couldn't care less about him," she told him.

"Let go?"

"Shit, yes!"

He sighed. Quietly, it hurt to hear that Emily didn't care, in the least; but there it was, in her voice, as plain as day. He sat down to eat his piece of cake, and watched Emily leave the table to make a coffee.

It couldn't have been clearer that she wasn't like the rest of them; that she wasn't a Center kid. He'd have gotten more empathy out of Alex, he supposed, and that was something of a shame to say. Alex had never had a chance, but Jarod didn't feel upset about it anymore. Alex was dead; as far as he knew, they couldn't hurt you when you were dead. That was where they had to draw the line, whether or not they liked it. The same went for Kyle, he supposed.

If Charles didn't believe that Lyle had been hurt by Kyle's death, then he didn't know Lyle; he didn't know that, as much as Kyle was a Center subject and Lyle was better than him because he _wasn't_, that he had related to Kyle; that Kyle must have been like a brother to him; another of Raines's kids. They may have had their competitions, their rivalries, but they'd still been a part of something together; they hadn't been friends, but they'd been family.

Jarod was well aware that he felt the same thing for Sydney, and, in his own way, for Miss Parker and Angelo. Even for Mr. Parker, or Raines, who were both, now, dead. They had been as much a part of his whole world as anyone, as Sydney or Miss Parker or Angelo.

He'd been told that you had to hold onto what you had, but he'd not been allowed to hold onto what he'd had; he'd not been allowed to hold onto them because they'd been the ones who'd hurt him; but, by gosh, he'd wanted to. Maybe, he thought, in his own way, Lyle had been stronger than him, maybe, in leaving his hometown the way he had, he'd been stronger, because he'd been able to let go, he'd been able to say, Enough is enough, as much as he'd done it in all the wrong ways. It had taken _so_ long for him to come to the same realisation; and it had _hurt_!

He'd missed his home everyday, even though he'd known that that was wrong; he hadn't hated himself for it, he hadn't thought, _Oh, isn't that sad!_ He hadn't allowed himself to drown in his own self pity, he'd told himself, _Hang on, you're out, now what? You're out, so what do you want now? Fight, by goodness fight! Find that thing that you want and fight like you've never fought before._ And that was what he'd done: he'd fought.

And he was still fighting.

* * *

**Tell me your thoughts? Maybe? Hated it? Sorta didn't mind it? Anything? And, _hey_, thanks for reading! :-)**


	12. Chapter 12

"This… this isn't a proposition, Emily," Charles told her.

She frowned at him; they were sitting at some chairs in a row of plastic seats, watching Margaret, Harmony and Snow playing ten pin bowls; Jarod was getting drinks from a vending machine, Ethan and Mo had went with him; Farfalla was sleeping in her pram. "He offered to help me remember," she replied, though it was a lie; she'd asked if he would, and he still hadn't offered her any definitive answer on the subject. Still, she was hoping he'd say Yes.

"He offered to help you remember?" Charles asked, incredulous; she was going to agree to all of this because he'd offered to get her her memory back for her; a couple of crappy years!

"Dad, this is important to me," she explained. "I feel like it's important. More now than ever, that I remember."

"Well, it isn't! It can't be! It can't be so important! More important than the safety of yourself, your children, your family! I don't see what you're seeing, Em."

She sighed, "Maybe I'm losing my mind; descending into madness…" She said it with a comical edge to her tone, but they both knew that it couldn't have been farther from comedic if it had been dressed up as a clown.

"I don't trust _him_! I don't trust this!"

"I know, dad," Emily told him. After a moment, she said blandly, "I hit Snow the other day."

Charles's expression became all the more serious.

"I got mad at him and I hit him; I think… I think it might be best if his father's around to… to make me feel bad for things like that."

"Make you feel bad?"

Emily shook her head, frowning. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong. What I mean is, he's going to play the good parent, so if I don't do the same, I'd feel bad. I'm nothing like he is, and if he can do it, why can't I? Come on, I mean, he's not Snow's father, not really; he never has been."

"What makes you so sure he's going to do that?" Charles asked.

"I told him, there's no hitting my kids, and there's no hitting me. So now he knows, and if he's not down with that, then I'll just leave; I'll just go. I'm sorry, it didn't work out."

Charles was frowning. "Emily, he isn't able to think like you do; he isn't all there."

She shook her head. "I beg to differ; I think he's very aware of the consequences of his actions, for the most part, most of the time. If he's saying something else, then it's as an excuse, as an excuse only. I'm certainly not falling for it; no way."

"Well then, there's a very good reason for this thing not to go through, isn't there," her father told her.

She made a face at him. "You think I'm deluding myself?"

He nodded; that was what he thought exactly.

"You know what, you don't give him enough credit. On one hand, you're so sure that he's… that he's like this wilfully, and on the other hand…" She shook her head. "Let me just ask, are you saying that you don't think he's even _going_ to _try_, or that he _can't_? Because, I don't want to get you wrong; I want to know."

"Why should he try?" her father asked.

"Because he needs someone to take over the Center when the time comes, and, seeing that he's dead, that's not going to be Robert… Raoul… Remus… Look, I don't remember the kid's name, but it's not going to be him, he's dead."

"Is that what you want? Is that what you really want, Emily? Your son growing up to take over something like that? The place that took your brothers away from you and returned one of them different, almost not himself, and the other, not at all! The place that cloned that brother, and that… that hurt you, too!"

Emily crossed her arms. "We can't say for certain how Jarod would have turned out, and, for the record, I think he's done just fine; I love him very, very much, and I can't imagine him any other way than the way he is now; I can't imagine him as some scummy-" She sighed heavily, looking away from her father. She was beginning to rant, and when she did that, she knew she had to put a stop to it; if she let herself go on, she'd say everything and anything and all of it she would regret ten or twenty minutes later.

"That's hardly an answer to my question, Emily," Charles told her.

She looked around at him sharply. "Jarod doesn't like the sounds of these T-Corp people, and, for that matter, neither do I! I'd prefer my children never run into anyone like that!"

"Even if that means them running into people like the Center, instead?" he asked.

She took a deep breath, "Yes!" She stood up suddenly, and walked away, taking Farfalla and her pram with her. "I need some air," she said, though she wasn't sure he'd heard her. She just needed to breathe, that was all; she just needed some air.

* * *

She was surprised to find a familiar face waiting for her outside, and equally as surprised not to see more; Sweepers, she supposed they were called.

"Emily-" he began heavily.

She shook her head. "Let's go for it; let's get married!"

He reached out to take her hand. "I'm not well, Emily. I won't be around for ever. Now, I think you'll do just fine, I really do, but I need to ask you, to be fair, I need to ask."

She half-smiled, half-frowned. "Well, I wasn't well, and look at me."

"Emily, it's slightly different than you think."

"You're talking about Healers?"

He let go of her hand. "Of course, I'm being entirely selfish. You must see this. If… if you're there, then you can be there for my sister, too. I don't… I don't love you, Emily; it's never been anyone else than her, ever since I first… since I'd first come to know of her-"

"You're a liar," Emily told him. "And you know how I know: because you hardly ever talk about her."

He sighed. "If I talked about her, then you'd have known from the get go that I wasn't really interested in you… that all I was really interested in was getting to your family, to Jarod… and that wasn't really a proposition."

She laughed, and waved a hand towards the door. "Then go on!"

He made a face. "You misunderstand my meaning; I have no particular desire to return Jarod to the Center, we all know how it would turn out; he'd just be declared unviable, and then… he'd be terminated; I don't believe he'd allow himself to be re-educated. I don't want that, I don't believe in that; they did this thing badly from the beginning, and this is only them getting what they should have had the foresight to know they'd eventually get all along. If you do a thing shoddy, you shouldn't be surprised that it turns out in a completely different direction to how you intended. Getting to the point, Emily, I was talking about psychologically."

"You're completely unfathomable, you know that!" she told him. "You really, _truly_ are mad!"

"I have heard similar arguments…" he fell short, staring at nothing at though maybe seeing something.

Emily started to frown.

"Who are you?" he asked, looking around at her. "I rephrase: what is your name?"

"Emily," she said, smiling.

"Do we know each other?"

She stopped smiling. "We're going to get married," she answered.

"Is that right? My apologies."

She shook her head. "What are you apologising for?"

"Well, I suppose I'm apologising for forgetting who my fiancé is. It seems rather rude, doesn't it? I expect, of course, that it should pass; it should only be tempor- And, in awfully typical fashion, I've forgotten how that word ends. Any moment now; I should be very embarrassed."

"That isn't funny," Emily told him, suddenly feeling ill. Why was he playing these stupid games?

"No, one should not imagine it so," he replied. He glanced at the pram. "And this is our lovely…"

"No, she's my daughter. You're not her father," Emily answered, her tone becoming cold.

"Of course." He sighed. "Mmm-hmm. Gosh, this is stretching on, isn't it?" He sighed again, and offered her his hand. "Well, I am Theodore, and, I might say, pleased to make your acquaintance, Emily."

She laughed. "Theodore, is it now?"

"Is that not… it?"

"No, it's _Lyle_!" she growled.

He put his hand down. "I stand corrected." He walked over to the steps and sat down. "Just a little dizzy, nothing to worry about," he told her.

She pushed Farfalla's pram over and stood glaring at him.

"Again, Emily, I apologise. Am I ruining our evening?"

She shook her head, unimpressed. "No! We weren't having an evening. I didn't ask you to come, you just turned up."

"Terribly apologetic," he said.

She had a strong feeling he was being sarcastic and wanted to hit him.

"What is that word?" he asked. "The one when-"

"The one when you feel like throwing up?" she asked, in conclusion to his question, and pointed to the door. "Sick. The word is 'sick.'" As an afterthought, she added, sarcastically sweet, "I do so think you should see a doctor, dear."

"No; no, I'm okay."

She tossed her head, not believing a word of what he'd just told her, he didn't sound okay, but, really, she'd had it with his games, and couldn't be bothered to offer anything up for the next round.

She stood around outside for a while, not listening to anything much, really, before deciding to head back inside, too. He'd gone inside to find the bathroom, she supposed, and, with any hope, had not run into Jarod or the rest of her family.

She went back inside, and left Farfalla with Charles, explaining to him that she needed some time on her own.

* * *

"Don't, don't ever let me tell you my name is Theodore again!" Lyle told her, when she'd stepped into the bathroom to check up on him – maybe he'd decided it was time to call the Sweepers in, now – though, she supposed, he wouldn't have had much luck with that, his hands were shaking too much.

"Why," she asked casually, in contrast to his ill-sounding voice, "is there something so wrong with that?" Apparently, he'd remembered enough to remember that his name wasn't, in fact, Theodore.

He shivered.

"Are you cold?"

"Diabetic."

She snorted. "Since when?"

"Nine."

"I'll get you a soda," she replied, and crossed her arms on her way out.

* * *

On her way to the drinks machine, she dug around in her pocket for coins, and stopped in front of the machine to count them out, hoping she had enough to buy two cans: she was thirsty.

Across the room, the other members of her family were engrossed in a game; she noticed them smiling, and felt lonely.

She returned her attention to the machine, and ran her eyes down the drinks up for offer, deciding, after some thought, on the cherry thing. According to Jarod, cherry soda was Parker's favourite, and she'd never tried it; she felt like trying something different; she'd give it a shot.

She got two cans, and walked back to the bathroom.

"I got the cherry one," she said to Lyle. "It's your sister's favourite, right?"

He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall; she supposed he looked pale, so maybe he wasn't putting the feeling sick thing on. She sat down beside him.

"My sister has a tattoo, you know," he told her.

"Ditto," Emily replied, and opened the can for him, passing it to him before turning her right wrist up to show the small, simple sun tattoo there.

"My sister's is a butterfly."

Emily opened her drink and sipped it. "Apparently this has caffeine. Are you alright with caffeine?"

"Yeah," he replied. He sighed, and got to his feet.

Emily did the same. The floor was hard, and cold.

"Here," Lyle reached past her and put a hand on her lower back, to which she pulled a face, "it's just here."

"So when did you see it?" Emily asked.

He took his hand back. "It was in her file, her… medical file."

"I bet you weren't supposed to read that," Emily told him.

"Yeah. I guess."

She nodded to his drink; he hadn't touching it yet. "It's going to lose all its bubbles." She looked at the door.

"It's bubbly," he told her.

"Mmm, yep. You don't drink much soda, then?"

"Mostly water."

"I prefer coffee," Emily agreed. She didn't drink soda much, either. Occasionally she'd have a Vanilla Coke, though. She didn't mind a strawberry shake, either, or a watermelon slushie, but watermelon slushies were hard to come by. "So, what brings you here?"

"There's a… a dance on on Saturday, in Blue Cove. I thought I might ask if you'd like to… come along…"

"What sort of a dance?"

"Just a dance, I suppose."

She thought about it for a moment. "I don't have anything nice to wear," she said, finally.

"You're nice enough as you are."

She made big eyes. "Oh, no! If I was going to go to a dance, I'd want something nice to wear!"

"Perhaps we could have a look for something on Friday. You could… I haven't met Snow, yet. You could… We could say 'hi.'"

"'Hi'?"

Lyle shrugged.

"I dunno."

He hiccuped. "Sorry, bubbly things always give me the hiccups. It happens with champagne, too."

"I like champagne," Emily told him, smiling.

"Yeah, my sister does, too."

Emily sipped her cherry soda, put out. "Snow'll have school Friday; I wouldn't wait, the shops'd probably be closing up by the time I got him back from school. And you have work, mind."

"I have the day off Friday," Lyle told her.

"Why's that?" Emily asked.

"They're doing something with the dining hall."

Emily grinned. "I bet you won't miss Surprise Friday!"

"I guess not."

"If you came round early enough, we could go out for lunch," she suggested. "We could pop by the shops afterward."

"I guess we could do that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Emily smiled. "Okay." She finished her drink. "My dad's not too impressed on the idea of us getting married."

"I don't think I would be, either, if I was him."

"But, stuff it, right?"

"Yeah," he said, finally, "stuff it."

"I guess Mom always wanted me to get married and have lots of kids. You know, live happily ever after, like she never got to."

"Yeah."

She grinned, scrunching up her nose. "I don't know how to dance!"

"I'm sure you'll learn."

"We should practise."

He laughed. "I seem to remember that not going down too well the last time."

Emily crossed the bathroom and dropped her empty can in the bin, and turned back to Lyle. "I'm willing to put that behind us if you are."


	13. Chapter 13

**This chapter's kind of weird. (I guess they all are.)**

* * *

"I'm going to go away soon, but it'll be okay. I believe that it will be okay."

"Hmm?" Emily turned away from the rack of dresses she'd been perusing to glance at him.

Lyle smiled and took her hand. He let go of her hand, it dropped back to her side. "It'll be okay."

Emily shook her head, unconcerned. "So who's this Theodore?"

"Theodore was Miss Parker's twin."

Emily nodded. "Isn't that you?"

"No."

"No? What sort of music are they playing at this dance? Fifties and sixties stuff?"

He nodded.

She sighed. "Well, none of these dresses are any good."

"Whatever you choose, I'm sure it will be perfect."

She laughed. "As long as you're paying, hon!"

* * *

They were walking through a mall, looking for a good shoe store, when he stopped, and, beside him, Emily slowed, glancing at him.

"Emily…"

She frowned.

He put his hands on her arms. "Why do you want to remember?"

She shook her head. Oh, God, he was treating her like a child! She laughed. "And you'd be fine with that? With…! Seven years! Seven years! It's seven years I don't remember! I can't live with that! What happened in those seven years?"

He took a hand from her arm to touch her face. "You're alright now," he told her.

She slapped his hand away, glaring. "No! I'm not! I'm not 'alright'! I'm with _you_!"

He frowned. "Okay."

She read his look perfectly: Am I that bad? She laughed, pointing a finger. "Oh, you know you are, babe! You're all that – and more!" She screamed; she couldn't care less about the looks she was garnering. "What am I doing with you? What am I doing to _myself?_!"

"If that's the way you honestly feel," Lyle replied calmly.

"Fuck yes – this is the way I _honestly_ feel!"

He didn't raise him voice, but told her, "I tried, Emily, I did. I guess it's always the same. _Nie genoeg nie, te laat._ Too little, too late. _Ek wou so veel dat dit net goed wees. Ek wou dit uit te werk. Ek was verkeerd. Dit kon nog nooit gewerk het. Ek dink dit is die deel waar ek wens jou 'n gelukkige lewe. Gee my liefde vir die kinders. __Totsiens. Restez bien._"

Emily laughed. She had no idea what he was saying, but, what was more, she couldn't bring herself to really care. He was probably insulting her, even if he dressed it up in that tone she suddenly hated. It made her think of Sydney – that sucking psycho – talking to her brother as though it was all okay, when it wasn't okay in the least – Sydney got to go home, he got to go home to his life – Jarod hadn't had a home, he hadn't had a life – Sydney and his wonderful fucking Center had seen to that!

She was no fool, she got enough – he was leaving her! _Good riddance!_ she thought, and laughed. She didn't try to stop him, she just laughed. Maybe people were staring, maybe they weren't – she didn't care about anyone else, she was finally doing what she should have done a long time ago! What she should have done from the start! Why she'd even thought she'd needed him, she couldn't fathom! It made her feel sick, just thinking about it.

She laughed, and shouted after him, "_Ni__ shige hundan! Wo__ hen ni__! Qu diyu!_" She hoped he did go to Hell!

* * *

"Well, you should be pleased," she informed Jarod, when she'd answered her cell phone. "We're not getting married! It's over!"

On the other end of the connection, Jarod sighed heavily.

"That's done it!" She got to her feet and looked around the mall. Nobody was looking at her anymore. "I've got to go," she told her brother, and hung up. She'd ring Margaret and ask her to mind the kids, she was going out – preferably to a nightclub!

* * *

Charles glanced at his son.

"Damn it!" Jarod scowled.

Charles said nothing; personally, he was taking it as good news. His pleasure at the announcement must have shown on his face because, a moment later, Jarod's scowl was directed at him. It was just for a second, and then he was off, rummaging around in his stash of files.

He came back with a photograph.

Charles made an effort to frown.

"It would have been better this way!" he told him stiffly. "It would have been so much better!"

Charles shook his head, really taking notice now. He looked at the photograph, but he didn't recognise the girl he saw, but… She was maybe in her middle to late teens, with short red hair. She was smiling. "Who is she?" he asked. Something about the girl nagged at him, like maybe he'd seen her before.

Jarod laughed, then rushed into, "Emily has an angel tattoo on her back, and it go me thinking. I was just thinking maybe I'd be able to trace it back to an artist, that sort of thing, but then… this other thing comes up, and… and suddenly I'm interested in the eugenics facility in Canada. This thing with the affiliation laws made me think, why was Lyle into all this T-Corp stuff anyway-"

"I don't follow," his father interrupted.

Jarod stared at him, then said, "He's the Center's expert in rival companies, and he knows a heck of a lot about our friends at T-Corp. And you know why that is? I didn't know, either, until quite recently. Apparently, when he was working at the eugenics place, the company gave him a little present – problem is, a couple of years on, his present turns out to be a T-Corp mole, one of their operatives! So he has to deal with it. She went by Lin." He nodded to the picture of the teenaged girl. "That's her."

"She seems familiar…" Charles told him, his frown deepening.

"Damn right she looks familiar!" Jarod laughed. "That's Emily!"

Charles shook his head. "That's not our Em."

Jarod shook his head. "Look, Dad, it's Emily. She was working for T-Corp, alright! For fuck's sake, they had a kid – a daughter! Her name's Saskia. She's missing. But, get this, the daughter was a Class Five Empath! The same Class that Reagan was; now Mom thinks Lyle's an Empath! Shit's happening, Dad! It's really happening! Trouble is, I can't make heads nor tails of it! I'm stuck! I don't know what it all means!"

"That girl, I don't know who she is, but she's not E-"

Jarod sighed heavily, annoyed that he was repeating himself, "Yes, Dad, it is! It's Em!"

Charles laughed bitterly, and shook his head. "And where did you happen upon this picture, anyway?"

"Sydney sent it to me," Jarod replied, knowing his father wasn't going to be pleased to here it, but not really caring – this was about his little sister, his dad just had to put his own feelings aside for a few seconds!

"Sydney? Is that the same Sydney who-"

Jarod threw up his hands, "I'm not sticking around for this, Dad! Sydney's my friend, whether you want to believe it or not. I trust Sydney – that's _my_ choice! I'm not asking you to!"

"Yes, Jarod, you are," Charles shot back. "You're a part of this family now, Jarod, and by trusting that man you're forcing all of us to trust him to; but, by Hell, I don't trust him – I don't trust him one iota!"

Jarod shook his head. "Then who are you going to trust, Dad? You've got to trust someone! We've all gotta start somewhere! I don't know who else to turn t-"

"I'm your father, son, you can turn to me; your mom, your brothers, anyone else! Anyone at all, son!"

Jarod ran a hand over his hair in frustration. "Now, don't lose your head, but you're not my friend, Dad. You haven't known me for as long as Sydney has, and I haven't known you for as long as I've known him. I know, I _know_, what that sounds like. And as hard as it sounds, it's the truth. I love you, Dad, and I've a good mind to realise that you love me, too; you all love me, I get it, but right now… You're not… I need someone on the inside, Dad, and I don't say that… I'm not just using Sydney, I'm trying to help him, whether he knows it or not. I want to help him, Dad! They killed Jacob but they're not having Sydney, too – no way!"

Charles stared at his son as though he was a stranger, then he turned and walked away.

Jarod let his posture slump. He didn't know the right words to explain it to his dad; it was all there, _inside_, but it just didn't know how to come out right. How could he explain to his father that though he'd never made friends as a child, though he'd never been to school to make those friends, that now, in adulthood, Sydney was like a friend, in fact, he was like his best friend?

He put the photograph of Emily away; he'd need it later, he supposed.

* * *

**Feedback is appreciated. (The thing with the words in other languages, it's on purpose. Do you want a translation? Do you think it's really necessary? (By the way, I used Google for the translations.)) Thanks for sticking with me this far anyway, guys. Have a good day, okay.**


	14. Chapter 14

"A picture doesn't prove anything," Charles told him, as they were driving. "You don't even know that picture's genuinely from where Sydney told you it was from, or if he planted it to string you along."

"That's what we're going to find out."

"And what if it turns out this is all part of Sydney's plan, if he and Lyle are in this together, to bring you back in? Hmm? What then, son?"

"I guess I'll find out, then," Jarod replied.

Charles scowled.

* * *

Lyle wiped away his blood nose on his sleeve, and stepped out of the way to let them pass, closing the door behind him. "Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Something else?"

Charles glared at him silently as though to say what he'd really like was to kill him but, ah, there was the little problem of it being against the law.

"Negative feedback?" Jarod asked.

Lyle shook his head slightly. "It's nothing."

"Well, I guess it's a start that you haven't rung the Sweepers in already," Jarod replied.

"I don't remember the number," Lyle told him.

Jarod laughed.

Lyle shook his head and walked into the kitchen. The light came on without his having to reach for the switch; Jarod froze in the hallway.

Charles looked at him: what was wrong?

"Nothing?" Jarod asked, suddenly upset, and stormed into the kitchen. "Are you stupid?"

"It sounded like a wonderful fucking idea at the time, I should tell you," Lyle said, smiling.

"It's suicidal, that's the only thing it is!" Jarod shouted hotly.

"I might've said, I've a headache, darl; keep it to a respectable level, 'ey?"

Jarod glared at him with deathly intensity, and Charles stared at them both, without a single clue as to what they were on about.

"Why?" Jarod growled.

"I had to get an 'in' back in with them somehow, didn't I now, love? 'S all very simple indeed, really. Pleased, they were, real chuffed-like; oh, so pleased." Lyle laughed; it was all very amusing.

"This isn't funny!" Jarod warned.

"And what'll you do about it, 'ey, laddie? Nothin', I wager; absolutely nothin'. Is nothin' to do, sir, is there? Nothin' at all, love."

"She needs you!"

"She don't need me! She never 'as! She was my wee sister, I wouldn't wan' her hangin' round the likes o' me, neither, I can tell you, lad!"

Jarod glared at him hatefully – and he could just drop the imitation Catherine accent, it was pissing him off!

"Makes me feel closer to 'er; she was me mam, have a bit of 'eart, 'ey, sport?"

Jarod smiled. "She hated you. She knew what you were going to become, and she hated you!"

"Tell you that 'erself, did she, lad?" Lyle asked.

Charles grabbed his arm.

"'Ello there, fella! Who's this then?"

Jarod shot him a glare. "My father!"

"Charlie, old boy! Ever so pleased to make your acquaintance!" Lyle told him cheerfully.

Jarod walked over to the pair and took his father's hand from Lyle's arm. "Dad, he's not with it. Leave it."

Charles laughed. "Not 'with' it?"

"No, Dad, his brain is slowly shutting itself down. He's going to die eventually, it can't be helped. He brought it on himself when he agreed to the upgrades. You know, this just proves it. They've only ever successfully managed to upgrade Empaths. It could be slow, or it could happen just like," Jarod snapped his fingers, "that!"

"All of that just went out the window," Charles told him, "I don't know what upgrading is."

"It allows for the interfacing of the mind with, if you will, machines, facilitated by any number of biomechanical colonies planted in the recipient's brain. Apparently, according to certain sources, it's barbaric, whilst, others still, think it's nothing short of wonderful!"

"Wonderful!" Lyle repeated, slurring the word.

"Why don't you have a seat," Jarod told him. "I suppose you had to have done something right for them to allow you to transfer back to Blue Cove."

Lyle laughed. "You can see the whole ocean."

"Not quite the whole ocean," Jarod replied.

"All of that water: so sad."

"Sad, is it?"

"So sad, so sick, so many bad things that we've done to it, bad people, so many bad things to each other; 's okay, it ain't hypocritical, we 's jus' people, doing what people will do, sonny. What a load of rubbish – people are stupid and self-centred, and when that's fall down around them, well, Hell, then they just cry ignorance! People suck, and I am going to be _glad_, mighty glad, when I'm not one of them anymore! I will be glad!"

"Well, what a comfort!"

Lyle laughed. "I don't know who you are; d' you mind if I have a glass of water?"

Jarod waved a hand at the sink, "Go right ahead."

He walked away to find the tissue box. He didn't like this, at all, but the fact remained, it had been Lyle's choice, and he didn't know of any way to fix it, as smart as everyone said he was. His sister was soon going to be alone in the world, because, to lose her Convergence partner, whom, it was fairly alright to say, she hated, she would feel that way – alone, abandoned, aimless, and he did believe that they had Convergence, and, if he was correct in saying that, that Snow was also a Class Five Empath.

He didn't know what he was going to do about 2011, but he had a fair idea that it wasn't going to be a cheerful year for his family. In fact, it's probably be a downright lousy year, but even in the most lousy situations, a person had to find something worth being cheerful about, he told himself. Right now, he knew it'd probably be okay to be cheerful that Lyle was going to die soon, but he just couldn't bring himself to it; he did, himself, believe that upgrading was barbaric, and he had since the moment the idea of it had conceived itself in his mind upon hearing of the notion for the first time.

He walked back into the kitchen and handed a tissue to Lyle. "Go easy on the lights tonight, hey?"

"It doesn't make sense that you weren't invited," Lyle told him in a conversational enough voice.

"What wasn't I invited to?" Jarod asked.

"Kyle's wedding. He's your brother, isn't he?"

"He's also dead. In light of which, it makes it very hard for me to believe that he's up for getting married any time soon."

"We're all dead, or dying, or waiting…"

Jarod glanced over to the door and watched Charles walk out. Apparently, he'd had enough.

"You should send a card," Lyle told him, crossing the room and following Charles out into the hallway a few moments later.

Jarod walked after him, stopping when he stopped at the telephone to scribble down an address on the back of a Grace Miller business card.

Lyle handed him the card. "You should send him a card. He's your brother."

Jarod sighed, "Alright, I'll send him a card, but just a card. What harm can it do?"

"Where is your father?"

"He's just gone out to get some air."

Lyle laughed, amused. "There's air in here, too."

"I suppose he wanted cold air."

"Would you like something to drink? A coffee? Or something else?"

"No, thank you, I'm right as I am for now," Jarod told him. He took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, watching Lyle walk back to the kitchen, and found Parker's number in the Address Book.

* * *

"Are you fucking kidding?" Parker laughed. She wasn't ready to believe him, he supposed. "Are you out of your mind? How is that even possible! What a thing to say!"

"He's an Empath, Parker, of course it's possible, and he's damn lucky to have survived that in the first place. It's catching up with him, now, we find."

"An Empath!" She was still laughing; she still didn't believe him.

"Don't be surprised," Jarod told her. "That's all I wanted to say: when the time comes, don't be surprised. You gave it your best shot, you couldn't help him, it's coming very soon, that time. It's okay. It'll be okay. You'll be able to let go."

Parker hung up on him, still laughing.

He didn't ring back, he said nothing to his father when he returned from outside, it was suddenly freezing in the hallway with the draught that had come in from outside, and he was taken with a terrible feeling of sadness, but he said nothing. It was okay, he knew it would be okay; sadness was a feeling he didn't want to forget how to feel, and given that it was over something such as it was, for someone such as it was, he counted himself very lucky that he felt anything at all beside hatred, that he felt anything beside what was Harmony's pet favourite line to attest to feeling. It made him feel human, and alive, like a person with heart, and that was okay. That was more than okay.

Once, he'd been afraid he'd never feel properly like this again, and now, out of the blue, here it was again: in that moment, he felt just how he wanted to feel, and that was all that mattered.

It would be okay, in the end, he knew. It would just be okay.

And, in the meantime, he had a card to write for Kyle's wedding.


	15. Chapter 15

Jarod frowned; Charles had left already, and Jarod was just sticking around in case Parker decided she wanted to say some last words after all. He'd been sitting in the lounge room, watching television, but there'd been nothing really on, so he'd come back into the kitchen. Walking over to the table, he'd found that Lyle was busy writing something down, but when he'd gotten closer he'd decided that maybe he was wrong: it didn't look like any language he'd seen before, and even though Lyle was a translator, it still seemed unlikely that what he was writing was a language of some form.

He might have asked "What are you writing?" but, for his troubles, he received no answer.

It wasn't until he began from the start that it started to make some semblance of sense that whatever it was, it could possibly be a code system of some sort.

He sat down to think.

"What are you writing?" he asked again, but to no avail. As he was contemplating that, a strange thought came to him: _Alex._ Of course, if it was a language that Lyle was writing in, Alex would have most certainly known it.

He tried to recall the few conversations he'd had with Alex over the years, the SIMs they'd worked on together, keeping in mind that rather than a language, it was probably a code.

Suddenly, he felt cold. He suppressed a shiver. He knew just exactly what Alex's answer would be, too: Base code.

It was the base code from the Center's African branch.

Jarod narrowed his eyes, as though maybe the action would make things clearer for him; but why was Lyle writing in African base code, he wondered. It was a good question, but one that wasn't likely to end up being answered.

He supposed the reason Lyle knew it was because the Center had wanted him to know it, he couldn't think of any other reason for his knowing it otherwise. But why they had wanted that was anyone's guess: it wasn't usually something they did lightly, give away their secrets so freely.

If he remembered correctly, he'd found out about the African base code from an MU he and Alex had been asked to fix. It had been broken, and, to the best of his knowledge, it still was: it'd be there now, sitting down in the Archives, gathering dust. It had been that damn base code that had done them both in, in the end. They hadn't been able to piece it together, and the machine had been too far gone to show anything other than its underlying base code.

Still, even then, he had suspected that Alex had gleaned on pretty quickly to the code's meaning, at least, in a limited capacity; he supposed it had been one of his power games: they're not mind readers, if I say I don't get it, what are they seriously going to do? What are they seriously going to do that they haven't already done?

Or maybe Alex hadn't liked the idea of upgrading, either. Maybe it had been one of his less insane rebellions. It was hard to say, Jarod supposed, that was just Alex, everything with him had been hard to say from start to finish, even though the Tower had thought they'd known everything there was to know about the creep, Jarod knew they'd been dead wrong. Sometimes, he thought that that was just it, even Alex hadn't known who he really had been, they'd never given him that chance, after all, and wasn't that just _so_ the Center!

He glanced across at the code Lyle was writing. "What's this?"

"There are things you will need, for the future," Lyle said, without looking up from his writing. Then he put the pen down and reached across the table to place his hand over Jarod's, and, for a moment, just a moment, his eyes turned up in his head, and Jarod wanted to pull his hand away, but he couldn't move.

"Take it," Lyle told him. "When the time is right, it will come to you."

Jarod sat on the other side of the table, watching blood drip onto the table. He wanted to say, _Stop it_, but he couldn't even do that. He wanted to say, _Just stop it, we'll find someone, a Healer, someone!_ But he wasn't stupid, and he knew that whatever else he was, Lyle wasn't either; he'd gotten himself into this, and he'd see it through to its end; he couldn't do anything else, no longer.

Lyle took his hand from Jarod's and pushed the papers across the table. "This is for Mel. You'll pass them along, I trust." He smiled. "I have to go now; I think you should do the same. Your father's waiting at the old diner, I believe you know the one, if you think on it long enough. It no longer runs now, but it did once. I don't suppose you'd remember, but it was where you had your second birthday, before things all went wrong, before they took Kyle away and you had to leave. Please give my letter to Mel. I'll show you to the door."

He stood up and walked out of the kitchen, but he didn't immediately walk to the door. Jarod didn't follow him, but stood by the kitchen door, trying to ignore the papers he was holding that he was to deliver to Parker.

"This is for you," Lyle told him, when he returned, and passed him an envelope, and they walked to the door.

Outside, it was cold; Jarod didn't stop to say anything, the door was closed and then there was nothing more to say. He walked away, thinking about the diner Lyle had mentioned. He supposed he knew the place, he'd seen a business card in Sydney's office once as a boy; he was sure it was the same diner. On the back of the business card had been scribbled a short invitation to a date that he was sure Sydney had never taken the woman who'd asked out on.

He remembered the street address.

Charles was waiting at the old diner, just as Lyle had said. Jarod was cold, and he was glad of the car's warmth. He didn't suppose Lyle had meant for him to deliver Parker's letter immediately, so he sighed and told Charles that he'd best take them… back to where the others were.

Charles didn't ask about the papers, and Jarod didn't offer any explanation for them. It wasn't until they'd reached Emily's house, and were sitting inside, in the kitchen, with hot coffees, that Jarod even remembered the envelope Lyle had given him.

Emily, in her pyjamas, was eating yoghurt, with her eye on the fruit bowl as though intending on eating a piece of fruit afterward. In between eating her yoghurt, she told Jarod that she had chocolate dipping sauce, if he was interested in sharing any of that with her, and he nodded vaguely.

Charles had left, by that time, to head back to Margaret and Harmony's, and Jarod had taken to turning the envelope over and over, hesitant to open it. It was from Lyle, after all, it could have been anything, at all, and it would, most likely, be anything at all of a rather decidedly nasty nature.

"Are you going to stare at that thing all night, or are you going to open it?" Emily asked, finally, probably, by that point, quite curious.

He sighed, and opened the envelope. It hadn't been sealed, so it wasn't hard. It was, he discovered, a photograph. Looking at the picture, he felt two things at almost the exact same time: his heart started beating faster, and it sunk.

The picture was of the old diner. It showed a family, a mother and father, and two small children, both of them boys. It was one of the boys' birthday, the elder's.

It had been _his_ birthday.

He turned the picture over, hardly bearing able to look at his brother at that young an age, smiling, like they'd both been smiling; just two kids, smiling.

On the back, it read, _For Edna, Jarod's second birthday. Be sure and send us a photograph of Annie's next, when it comes up. You know how simply thrilled Charlie would be! Warm regards, Maggie._

Emily leaned over the table eagerly. "Well, what does it say?"

"Nothing," Jarod replied. He put the photograph back in the envelope he'd been given it in.

Emily stared at him with an _Unfair_ look.

"It's nothing," he repeated.

Emily started to say something – and fell out of her chair, to the floor.

Jarod leapt up out of his seat, and rushed around the table, falling to the floor beside his sister. "Emily?" he asked, giving her face a gentle slap.

She struggled into a sitting position, and moaned. "That was crappy," she replied unenthusiastically.

"Are you okay?" Jarod rushed. "Has this happened before?"

Emily shook her head and got to her feet. "I'm going to have some apple. What about you?"

He got up, too. "I think I'll just have another coffee," he said, subdued.

Emily was smiling.

"Did you meet someone tonight?" he asked.

She grinned, turning her glance to the fridge for a moment. "I dunno. Maybe I did. I'll see if he calls. If he does, then I did."

He smiled, trying to be happy for her. "Okay, maybe I will have some apple, after all."

Emily grinned, and laughed. "Knew you'd say that!" she teased.

He could feel it already, that old connection opening up; even if Sydney hadn't believed that they'd been twins, even if he hadn't _wanted_ to believe it, Jarod knew that it had been true: and now Parker knew it, too. She missed her twin already.

Maybe she'd push the feeling away, but he'd always still have felt it.

Once, when they'd just been kids, really, she'd taken away his bad dreams, she been worlds away, in boarding school, and she'd still been there for him, she always been a friend. He knew that no matter what, he'd never be able to do that for her; he'd never be able to take away her bad dreams.

And now the bad dreams would come.

Perhaps, in a way, he thought, Lyle had been her dream catcher. He'd made sure none of the really bad things caught up to her, he'd been her twin, and she'd been his, they'd needed each other, and though she had wonderful talents of her own, they'd never been intended to be apart, they'd meant to be twins, to be together, always. He'd never forgotten that, somewhere deep inside, but she had; she hadn't been his dream catcher, and maybe it had all been too much for him, maybe he'd needed her, because what she had, he hadn't had, and what he'd had, she hadn't had; maybe they'd only ever needed to be together, all along.

In the scheme of things, Jarod thought, it was just about plausible. They hadn't, after all, shared expressions as Jacob and Sydney had; they'd each had something different. Perhaps, when everyone else had been seeing them as separate, they hadn't been looking far enough into things, they hadn't been considering the bond that people could have with other people, or with their twin.

He frowned; he knew he'd have to be Parker's friend now, no matter what, he'd have to be on her side. He wasn't going to lose her, not her; he'd already lost Kyle, he wasn't losing her, too. They were family now, as they'd really always been, and family stuck together.

He was going to help her, he was going to save her – this one he'd save!

Emily had put the radio on, just loudly enough to hear, but not so loud as to wake the kids or any neighbours, and was dancing around the kitchen.

Jarod poured himself another coffee from the coffee pot on the sideboard; it wasn't hot, but it was warm enough; it would have to do.

He watched Emily smiling as she cut up apples, singing along to a song on the radio.

He didn't think he was going to tell her about Lin, he thought he'd keep that to himself, and he'd ask Charles to do the same. _Look at how happy she is now_, he thought, and he couldn't, not for the _world_, could he bear to break that happiness!


	16. Chapter 16

She didn't cry, she wasn't in tears, but she waiting back, after everyone had left. She waiting, as she always had.

And he waited to, for the right moment, and then he stepped out of where he'd been keeping himself scarce, and she didn't smile, but she wasn't crying, either.

She hadn't brought flowers; she'd brought herself, that was enough.

He hadn't brought anything, either. Or maybe he had; maybe he'd brought his heart, and a few words.

She smiled when he started to talk, but he just went on, undeterred.

"There's nothing left for you here; why don't we just go away? You, me, the family. Just go away? Sydney's going to have the place closed down, anyway, employees relocated; it's just not a proposition, not anymore. So come with me; the others, they'll all be fine. They don't need you, they've got Sydney. He's the Chairman now, not you. Look at you, here all alone; you're father was the Chairman, but where did that get him? Where did that get you? Or your brother? So come; Ethan's waiting. He's never given up one you, you know. And, you know what, neither have I. I think you'll find you'll quite like it, actually."

Her smile was gone, now, but she was saying nothing. The breeze from the ocean whipped the ends of her hair up and about, brushing her coat, and still she said nothing.

He made an effort to convince her: here he was, his hometown, Hell for the living, and here she was: the woman he loved, in his own way, and who, in her own way, he was sure, loved him back.

She'd just been to her brother's funeral, her twin's funeral, but she wasn't crying. The tears wouldn't have changed anything, and they'd have done nothing for the lawn, either.

She was as strong as she'd ever been.

Maybe she was stronger.

"What have we got? Less than a year, before T-Corp comes after me? So let's live it up – let's have _fun_! What do you say, Missy? Wanna have fun? You're never too young or too old to have fun, smile once in a while? Come on, go for it! Do it for me! Do it for an old friend." And he held out his hand – just for her.

And she took it.

* * *

**That was the very _awful_ happy ending. Thanks for sticking with me, youse guys.**


End file.
